


Radio Hits from the Worst Month of Your Life

by 17603



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Canon-Typical Poor Decision-Making, Human Disaster Freddy Newandyke, M/M, Marking, No One is Remotely Professional, Rough Sex, Shamelessly Diagetic Music, Swearing, This Was Meant to be a Short PWP, Wanton Emotional Destruction, biting and scratching, mentions of abuse, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17603/pseuds/17603
Summary: Mr Pink always says the wrong thing. Mr Orange isn't that great at undercover. Maybe they should work on that (they absolutely won't).
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. Pink (Reservoir Dogs), Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 157





	Radio Hits from the Worst Month of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> The unnamed song is 'Blue Monday' by New Order.

Pink's initial opinion of Mr Orange is  _ what a fuckin dweeb _ .

The guy asks him if he wants to meet up after the warehouse meeting and he's surprisingly persistent about it too, says he wants to talk over some shit about the upcoming robbery but it shifts gears pretty quick to just hanging out, and after a few days Pink decides he's not a total lost cause. He doesn't touch the radio too much, he's a good listener, seems to agree with Pink's ranting and at first yeah maybe he's humouring him, but then he starts asking questions and he's pretty smart - not that well read, but he can keep up. He actually gets into the philosophical bullshitting while they're parked on some side street doing surveillance or research or what the fuck ever this is (mostly boring). He's got a lot of opinions, but he's not a dick about em, he doesn't call him a faggot or tell him to shut up, which makes him a unique figure in Pink's life thus far.

Sometimes he catches Orange looking at him like he heard something Pink didn't say, which is unnerving because for all he talks, he doesn't say a lot of things.

Yeah, unnerving, but not exactly bad.

One evening they're all in some sleazy titty bar and Pink mouths off to that stone cold bastard Mister Blonde without thinking (like he always never does) and he might as well be standing outside his own body watching his last few minutes on earth, but then Orange gets in the middle of them. Doesn't pull from the side or try and talk them down, just jumps up immediately between them, back to Pink like he trusts him not to stick a knife in it, hackles up. Blonde laughs because this kid is even smaller than Pink, because he's Mister Blonde and that's not even a colour, because he's a fucking psycho, and chucks him under the chin. He makes a few comments about Orange not wanting him to bust his boyfriend's smart mouth up too much to suck his dick later too.

Orange just looks up at Blonde all filthy, head cocked, and says "I'm sure someone will suck your dick if you say pretty please" then lets his eyes flick to Nice Guy Eddie. Of fucking course everyone sees it because every shred of attention in the place is fixed on them, the late crowd loves a good murder. Blonde punches him because he kinda has to after that, knocks him backwards into Pink and they both go down ass-first in a heap to the tune of 'Son of a Preacher Man' (strippers apparently love juxtaposition), but for a fist in the face it's almost pensive.

White, who's been watching this bullshit from under one raised eyebrow like he's finding them all too immature for words, hauls Orange up and drags him over to the bar with an arm around his shoulders. No one reaches to help Pink to his feet, no one's even looking any more, they've all gone back to their conversations. Up on stage, Little Miss Preacher Man hasn't even missed a gyration. He sits between the tables with everyone's backs to him and his palms stick to the greasy seventies carpet when he pushes himself upright.

Figures.

He'd like to go wash his hands, but someone would probably call him a pussy and everyone would snigger when he came back, so he just wipes them on his jeans as he slides into his chair and hopes he'll remember not to touch his face for the rest of the night.

The song's winding up,  _ sweet talkin' son of a preacher man _ , and over at the bar White's tipping Orange's head from side to side and dabbing at his bloody nose with paper napkins he's dipping in a whiskey glass of water. Behind them, one of the topless waitresses chews gum and inspects her nails, slaps down more napkins every time White waves a hand at her, and he doesn't even glance in her direction because he's totally focused on touching another guy's face. Orange stands still and lets it all happen, fingertips hanging out his too-long sleeves like a fuckin Lost Boy, Neverland reject. He and White are about the same height (Pink's taller than both of them), but Orange's slouching, almost as if he's trying to make himself smaller. Interesting.

When they're all sitting down again, Orange ends up parked next to White like the old guy wants to keep a close eye on him, and fuck, with that pinky ring and how close he was standing over by the bar, no surprise there. Conversation resumes. White's arm drapes across the back of Orange's chair, almost over his shoulders. He definitely wants to keep more than an eye on him, but he's a fuckin perfect gentleman and for some reason it's infuriating, so Pink tries not to look. No one pays any attention to him anyway, hunched in the chair on Orange's other side and tap tap tapping his fingertips on his sticky palms to the beat of 'Drives Me Crazy' even though it's revolting and the breathy falsetto fuzzes out the ancient PA system. Fucking figures, so he calls Brown a stupid cunt ( _ and I can't help myself _ ) because 'Friday I'm In Love' isn't about prostitutes, and then tells him he's wrong about David Bowie when a girl with heavy silver eye shadow starts swinging a sharp cut bob around to 'China Girl' (what the fuck, honestly, who picks these songs), the guy gets an awful lot of pussy for a queer, and nothing matters for a while because everyone except White and Blue turn on him at once. To be fair, Orange doesn't either, he introduces the term  _ bisexual _ to the argument and then sits back to smirk while everyone yells, Bowie's got good advice that Pink can never follow,  _ oh baby you just shut your mouth _ . He can see White's solid forearm touching the nape of his neck and tries not to wonder if it feels good, like being protected,  _ oh baby just you shut your mouth _ .

When conversation has well and truly moved on, Pink pulls his chair closer to Orange and says "the fuck did you do that for" and knows Orange can hear, even over the sound of 'Bad Medicine', he's really saying  _ I can take care of myself _ .

Orange just gives him a feral smile with still-bloody teeth, rests his arm on the back of Pink's chair and says "because I wanted to."

The girl on stage honest to god grinds her asshole up and down the pole (do they clean it between acts, because the chick doing the routine to 'Cherry Pie' was licking the fucking thing) while Bon Jovi howls  _ you get a little and it's never enough _ .

Leather brushes his bare neck throughout the evening, but just a little, never enough to feel any warmth.

Later when they're all leaving, Orange sprawls in the passenger seat of Pink's car without even being invited, yawning, loose-limbed and quiet. He's dressed in what a nerd thinks a tough guy wears - leather jacket that's too big, sleeveless white shirt that he doesn't quite fill out, too-long jeans with the cuffs rolled up over battered sneakers - and his dumb floppy hair hangs almost in his eyes. There's still blood smeared under his nose and he grins at him while he spins the stereo dial through the stations, settles on something with a hard snap of drums and caterpillar crawl of synth. He sits with his knees tipped open and streetlights washing across his face just out of sync with the beat while they drive and yeah he's a little junkyard dog trying to play with the wolves, barely a thief, barely a dealer, his stories are definitely closer to bullshit than fact, but there's more than one kind of dangerous, and sometimes tough is relative. Orange talked shit to Blonde and got decked in the face, then looked up at White with big doe eyes and sat safe under his arm all night, now he's mouthing  _ thought I was mistaken, thought I heard your words _ and tapping his plastic lighter on his knee.

He puts a hand on Pink's leg while they're driving, before the song's even done - how long is this fucking song anyway - still looking out the window, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, and he doesn't say anything. The singer on the radio drops his voice down low to croon  _ tell me how do I feel, tell me now how should I feel _ . Yeah, this is dangerous.

He's not the kind of guy Pink usually ends up in the alleyway or dark rooms with, but he's there and interested now and it seems like it'd be...something. Possibly fun, probably a mistake, definitely intense. There's still traces of blood dried in the cracks of his lips. The song ends eventually, but the hand doesn't move even though it kinda feels like it should.

When they pull up outside Orange's presumed apartment, he doesn't say anything other than "see you tomorrow" as he gets out and slams the door. Pink'd been preparing different ways to turn down the "do you want to come upstairs" question but then not getting asked it at all is somehow infuriating. Lying in his own bed later, trying to hold on to the fading ghost sensation of a palm on his thigh, he doesn't even know why he would have wanted to refuse. It isn't like he has something better. Or anything.

That fucking song's stuck in his head too,  _ when you've laid your hands upon me and told me who you are _ over and over. It's some Eurotrashy techno band, he's heard it before but god knows where, and the bassline slinks through his dreams, sinister and thin.

The next day, Orange is already lounging on the street when Pink pulls up. He's in a very faded Thundercats t-shirt now, with black plastic sunglasses and the same jeans, the same drip-spots of blood on one knee. He grins when he gets into the car, slouches again with one arm hanging out the window, and lights two cigarettes at once before handing one to Pink. The filter's slightly tacky from his mouth. The canine teeth in that smile are very sharp. His collarbones are pronounced where the shirt collar gaps.

The whole afternoon is tense, though it's not unpleasant. They talk easy, fight easy over the radio and whether or not X-Men is a metaphor for being a queer (both careful not to imply anything), whether Back to the Future was meant to be Determinist (after he explains Determinism) and if Doc Brown was a creep for hanging around a highschooler. Orange gives him shit about not tipping when they stop for lunch in a diner, but he puts down a few extra singles under the sugar jar and smiles with too many teeth again, the radio plays that Chili Peppers song from a few months ago,  _ I never worry, now that is a lie, _ and their knees bump under the table. Pink feels the brush of a hand in the small of his back as they walk out the door, quick flick glance around but no one's noticed. Orange stops by the car and leans on the driver door, lights his own cigarette and holds one out to Pink. When he leans forward to light it for him, he steadies himself with one hand on his waist, thumb finding Pink's hipbone. No one can see it between the parked cars, no one even cares enough to look, but his heart rate goes up and his skin goes hot and tight anyway, he's tensing for a fight and doesn't really breathe out until they're standing well apart again. Orange keeps smirking.

There's something off about the guy; he's such a low rent criminal but he's confident and for all his wide eyes and puppy teeth, there's a very sharp edge twisting beneath the surface. None of the guys Pink has let shove him to his knees have been like this, and neither have any of the guys he's held in place by the hair. He's never eaten lunch with a guy who's put a hand on his leg in the car, and he's never kissed a guy who's laughed at his jokes. No one's ever stood between his big mouth and someone's fists either, not even when he was a kid getting his face busted regular by his dumb junkie mom. Everyone assumed his dad was doing it because it always is, isn't it, but his dad's eyes slid right over him and now he doesn't think of the daytime television psychological bullshit explanations about male role models and affection and intimacy while he's in West Hollywood. Fuck that.

Except he sometimes does.

It doesn't mean anything. He's queer because he just is and he's fucked up because his parents were, and he wants things he can't have because everyone does. He's left the radio on the same station hoping they'll play the song from last night again, but they just play the same ten shit pop songs over and over, with way too many ads. Figures, and Orange laughed when he complained, but didn't touch the dial, hasn't put a hand back on his leg either.

Fucking figures.

Except when they get back in the car, he does twist the dial, and his hand does squeeze Pink's thigh, higher up this time, and when he looks over, Orange says "my place" and it isn't a question. The drive is short. It's the middle of the day and traffic is light, sun beats down and warms his legs through his black jeans, Englishmen sing in almost-broken Spanish over a cruising beat,  _ si me voy va a haber peligro _ , not as warm as the palm sliding further up his thigh,  _ si me quedo sera el doble _ . Normal daytime people go about their business, none of the nighthawks hopping from puddle to puddle of orange streetlight and the creeps sidling along in the dark.

The building Orange lives in is low-key shitty, bad repair and apartments obviously poorly converted from one bigger house. Stairs go at odd angles and end in blank walls, wood flooring gaps almost enough to let light through. Cheap doors and crumbling walls in powdery landlord colours. It'd be easy to rob, and when he sees the inside of the apartment, he gets why Orange doesn't care. He's got nothing worth taking.

"Hey," Orange half turns as he's unlocking his apartment door and the expression on his face is serious, "I'm clean."

Shit, of course. How could he fucking forget to ask. "Yeah, yeah I am too. Don't have the card with me though."

"S'alright," Orange says, and grins. Fucking hell. 

The door's barely shut before he's being shoved against it: there's none of the awkward back and forthing over a drink that he was worried about, he's nose to (big) nose with Orange, close enough to count his freckles and see the iodised copper fade in his irises and feel his chest through their shirts. He smells of smoke and something between sweat and deodorant, and when he kisses him, his mouth tastes of cigarettes and skin. One leg works its way between his, and both spidery hands go up his shirt at once, though they stop at his ribs like Orange isn't sure he's got permission to go higher. He's closed his eyes for the kiss and it makes his face younger and softer and what a fucking idiot. Pink hasn't shut his eyes; he's not letting this situation get away from him.

It's weird to be doing this with a guy in daylight, he hasn't since he was a teenager sitting under the boardwalk smoking cheap weed, carnie music and the Beach Boys over the PA, mixed with the grind of salt-crusted rides,  _ home, why don't they let me go home,  _ blood salt in his mouth,  _ this is the worst trip I've ever been on _ , and even though they're in a locked apartment with no one else around, he's on edge. When his own hands pull Orange's narrow hips forward so hard their belt buckles clink, he's rewarded with a mumbling almost-groan and the hands on his waist finally slide up his chest to press him hard against the splintering paint of the door before scraping down again with just the barest hint of nails. His breath stutters against Orange's mouth and he can feel the guy's lips stretch into a grin before he kisses him harder.

Orange isn't frantic or hurried, just insistent, one hand undoing his shirt buttons while the other comes up to his jaw. He kisses like he smiles, a little too much teeth, and when they nip his tongue and his breath catches, it occurs to him that the situation may already have gotten well away from him.

When his mouth transfers to his neck, Pink's expecting the next step to be for him to drop to his knees and undo his belt, but Orange just drags his lips over his collarbone, runs a hand up Pink's exposed stomach and chest and stares like he's very pleased with the view - and it's not the worst view yeah but he knows he's somehow both thin and soft, crooked ribs and no muscle - before kissing him on the mouth again, the hand on his jaw sliding around to cup the back of his head. Their chests are pressed together and Orange is grinding on his thigh like a fuckin teenager, and he's doing it right back while his heart beats like it's gonna kick its way out of his ribcage, like that fucking song, steady til it stutters fast,  _ tell me now how do I feel _ .

"Come on," Orange says in his ear, then steps away. His mouth is red, not with blood this time, but when he gives Pink a little smile with just a few teeth visible, the grin from the bar flashes in his mind. Knees a little wobbly and cock rubbing awkwardly against the fly of his jeans, he follows him into the bedroom. The blinds are shut but they're so thin that it's barely darker than the other room, broken-off slats throwing random stripes onto the poorly made bed. The bloody shirt from yesterday and leather jacket are in a heap on the floor.

"You should fire your maid," Pink says.

"Fuck you," Orange laughs and bounces down on the mattress, patting the spot next to him when Pink hesitates.

He's in someone's bedroom, the bedroom of a (shitty) criminal whom he just met the other day, in broad daylight. He doesn't know this guy really, but he knows him better than anyone else he's kissed lately or maybe ever, he knows his opinions about nature versus nurture and that he thinks nihilism (once it was explained to him) is kinda cowardly and he likes comic books and eats pancakes like a fuckin child. But he doesn't know him really, not his name.

_ It's never mattered before _ , whispers a voice in his head, then another adds,  _ laid your hands upon me and told me who you are _ . Yeah, that's all that matters, this is just a perk, all he needs to know is that Orange is a queer (and funny, naive, sharp, dangerous) and he wants this to happen. Nothing else matters.

He sits down and starts undoing his shoes to buy for time and let his heart rate drop a little, even though Orange is still wearing his sneakers, uncivilised creature that he apparently is. The mattress squeaks and bounces behind him and hands slip around his ribs. One slides up over his chest, one goes down to his stomach and Orange sucks on the bumps of Pink's spine just below his hairline. He shivers, goosebumps rising, and jerks when teeth catch the skin lightly. It's unsettlingly intimate, and it takes a few seconds before he realises that his hands have frozen on his shoelaces and kicks himself into gear again. He didn't come here for intimacy, he came here because, well, he was invited and, fuck, whatever, why not.

Joe said not to get personal, this doesn't have to be personal.

When his shoes are finally off, he twists around and shoves Orange backwards, follows him across the bed and kisses the dumb little laugh he makes back into his mouth. His hair's a mess and his eyes are heavy-lidded, lines of sunlight burn bright on his washed-out blue t-shirt and pale skin, he's almost hard to look at, toeing the covers, shifting his hips and grinning.

Orange kisses him again, hooks an arm around his waist and drags him close so their bodies press together from mouth to knees. Their teeth click and the cheap poly-cotton blend is soft on Pink's bare chest, but he wants to feel skin so he pushes him onto his back and climbs up to sit across his hips, slides the t-shirt up and scratches both hands down the smooth curve of his sides and inwards, ending in eight reddening welts just above his belt.

Orange trembles, wriggles, and reaches to push Pink's shirt down his arms, but as soon as it's off, he sits up, pecks a kiss to his sternum before grabbing him by the biceps and tipping him sideways. They tussle for a few seconds and it ends with Orange perched over his thighs, throwing his own shirt into the corner. He's lean and almost hairless, a tiny patch of sandy scruff on his stomach leading down into his jeans, veins winding up his arms where wiry muscles tense, and a long pale knife scar down his chest, just missing his right nipple. He doesn't seem to care that Pink's noticed though, he just leans down and keeps kissing him, tipping his hips forward so they rub together, one hand in his hair. Pink finds himself wishing the fingers would tighten and he'd pull, hard.

They do this back and forth for a while, shoving each other down and trading being on top, almost lazy and hands not really straying low. With haphazard superhero posters on the walls and a stack of comic books on the nightstand, a can of knockoff supermarket brand Dr Pepper - Dr Dynamite - sitting warm on the windowsill and laundry thrown in the corner behind the half-open door, Pink feels like he's gone back in time. It's like he's getting something he wanted years too late, long after he thought he'd stopped wanting it, and discovering that he still does. If he closes his eyes, it's 1980, Freddy Mercury is singing  _ I gotta be cool, relax _ , over a walking bassline and the mouth on his neck,  _ get hip, get on my tracks _ , could belong to anyone.

When Orange flips them and pins him again, it's rougher. Fingers close around his wrists and press his arms back, crooked elbows and hands above his head. Pink's heels scrabble on the sheet until he has enough purchase to buck his hips upwards, not sure if he's trying to dislodge him or rub against him. The only response he gets are those sharp teeth on his ear, and it's so unexpected and good that he whines.

Orange licks over his toothmarks and murmurs "interesting" then does it again, harder. When Pink leans too far to one side, one of his wrists is released and he's yanked sharply by the hair, head held in place while teeth and tongue travel up his jawline. The burn in his scalp is familiar and satisfying and it all doesn't feel so lazy any more. He bites his lip and swallows the noises clawing their way up his throat even though there's no real reason to, just old habits, the self-conscious shame of being one of those guys who moans like they're in porn, like the handjob they're getting in the back room of a Weho bar is anything to write home about. He's learned how to be quiet, he's not giving anything away.

It's fucking good being held down, pressed into the bed at the hips and mouth, but he's not going to just lie there and take it, he's not giving in and letting Orange call the shots. He pushes back, grabs his hair with his free hand, twists his hips, tries to rub against him through two layers of denim. Orange makes a snarling noise and jerks his head down, hard enough that Pink releases his hair, hard enough that he yelps in surprise, hard enough that the burn of it goes straight down his spine and buckles his knees, dropping him back flat onto the bed with Orange still perched over him.

He looks startled by his own savagery, his eyes widen and there's a pause while he stares, but his grip doesn't loosen. They blink at each other and Pink realises that he's waiting for some kind of signal that he isn't pushing things too hard, uneven teeth catch on his lower lip and it's stupidly endearing, like he fucking cares or something, like they aren't just using each other. Pink lets himself grin, slow and easy, shows all his own crooked teeth, grinds up against him, arches his back. Orange smirks, leans down to kiss him, narrow shoulders spread broad in his field of view, starts out soft and sweet but thank god that doesn't last.

Rough bites up the outside of his ear, not hard enough to break the skin but he half-imagines he can feel the pinprick points of those sharp canines leaving needle holes. His breathing is embarrassingly heavy and every time Orange pauses to lick around the bruising cartilage, his whole body shivers and his hands stutter and spasm, grabbing uselessly at bare shoulders.

"I won't mark you up," he breathes, tongue sliding slow up Pink's earlobe before he nips at it again. His ears feel hot and tender, and the fingers that trace the curve or cartilage are cool.

Pink digs his fingernails in on either side of Orange's spine and says "I really don't care."

Next time he flips them over, instead of straddling him again, he kneels on the mattress and says "roll over," because why not, let's shake things up a bit, and he kinda wants to see his handiwork, if he's covered in red lines yet. On his way, Orange half sits up and gives him a quick kiss, palm gentle on his cheek and fingertips brushing through his hair. It's affectionate and warm, like something you'd do to a girl in a fucking romantic movie, not something anyone ever does to a guy (him), and what the fuck. This must show on his face because Orange peers up at him from where his cheek's resting on the faded striped sheet, half smile just visible on his mouth but soft and obvious in his eyes, and says "you okay?"

"Shut up," Pink says and moves to kneel over his thighs, runs his palms down the smooth skin of his back to his waist (he's got some good red welts coming in) and, on a dumb whim, leans over to kiss the back of his neck. Under him, Orange gives a little shiver and makes a low noise, so, remembering what he did to him earlier, Pink scrapes his teeth over the vertebrae and is stupidly pleased when the hum turns into a breathy gasp.

That's the thing; they'll all do unto others as they'd like done unto them. Pay attention and you'll get it right, you've only ever got one shot. Except some people don't; they get time and trial and error and familiar hands remembering their skin, touch memory. Who'd want that, it's probably boring, it's probably terrible, it'd probably end in, well, it'd just end.

Leaning forward like this lets him grind his dick against Orange's ass, which he does while planting sucking bites down over his shoulderblades. His skin has the faint sharp taste of salt, freckles dot his shoulders, the room is warm from sun on the closed windows and the air is heavy with the smell of person, of people, of new sweat and old laundry and cheap smokes. When he perches back, Orange's hands slide down to his knees, then clumsily up his thighs as far as he can reach (not far) in his current position. His hair spills over the side of his face and down his neck, red lines and bite marks dark on his skin, lines of afternoon light on his pale back like overexposed film cut across him at thirty degree angles.

Pink slips his hands around the curve of hipbones, just under the waistband of his jeans and boxer shorts, lifts him a little and watches his shoulders shift as his head drops, forehead on the mattress, knees spreading as he pushes back. Pink leaves his left hand holding his hip and keeps sliding his right down, the angle's awkward but Orange twitches when his fingertips scrape through coarse hair and then he straight up whines when they brush his dick, back arching under his mouth. They're both breathing heavier, the rub of underwear against his own cock is almost painful but in no way satisfying no matter how hard Orange presses back against him. The jeans are loose enough that he can get his hand around Orange's dick, but not loose enough to let him move it, so he spreads his fingers - it's a nice handful, smooth and hot to the touch - and tightens his grip and enjoys the frustrated wriggling while Orange desperately tries to get enough leverage to fuck his hand. It's no use, Pink's hand is trapped there, and he's got a perfect view of the muscles across his shoulders tensing while he makes little high-pitched noises.

"Please," Orange gasps when he swirls his thumb over the sticky head of his dick, spreads the precome around and squeezes in between the circles he's rubbing.

The angle of it isn't comfortable at all, it's killing his wrist, so he lets go long enough to undo Orange's belt and pop the button on his jeans, making sure to squeeze his dick when he slides the zipper down. Hearing his breath catch when he slips his hand back down the waistband of his boxer shorts, watching him squirm around while he rakes his fingers over the soft skin on the inside of his hip and down the crease of his thigh, feeling his hips tilt and twist while he desperately tries to direct Pink's hand back to his cock...it's a lot of goddamn fun. Even though he knows Orange could throw him off pretty easy, he feels like he's in control, and, surprisingly, what he wants to do with this control is see how many of those noises he can coax out of him, how far he can push before he begs.

Orange makes a pleased humming sound when he grabs his dick again, and now he's got just enough room to jerk him off - not much, and not hard, but when he uses his thumbnail to scrape down his spine from just under his hairline to the waistband of his underwear, he moans and his cock twitches in Pink's hand. So he does it again, harder, and again, watching a line raise on the pale skin, dark red and steady amid a collection of lighter scratches in their sets of four. Orange tries shoving himself up onto his elbows, body curving upwards, but a hand on the back of his neck stops that.

"Fuck," he sighs, voice cracking somewhere between the c and the k, so low it doesn't seem like something anyone else was meant to hear, and for some reason this goes straight to Pink's dick, somehow it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. Confident Mr Orange barely holding it together, face down on his own bed, cock leaking all over Pink's hand, red marks on his skin and entirely too much trust in someone he barely knows.

Pink could do anything to him; for all Orange knows he could have a knife, he could be about to punch him repeatedly in the back of the head, he could even just push too far and not listen when he says to stop, draw blood, draw fear. He trusts him, why the fuck does he trust him, how did he decide that Pink wasn't gonna hurt him? He doesn't want to do that, not at all, but how the fuck can Orange know that?

What he wants to do, and what he does, is pull his jeans and shorts down around his shins and then rest one knee on them, pinning his legs. He's got a nice ass, narrow like the rest of him, and when he grabs it he can feel that it's sparsely dusted with almost-blonde hair. He's still wearing his sneakers so he's trapped, he can't even kick them off, just lies there face down and squirming, breathing hard while his hips make little jerky motions, like he's trying to get any kind of friction against his leaking cock. Running a hand down his flank, turning from a stroke to a scrape just he passes the crease of his thigh, Pink wonders idly if he prefers giving or taking it, if he's up for it at all. 

  
  


_ Maybe next time _ pops into his head, except there's no such thing as next times and he's a dumb fuck if he thinks so, and he slaps him sharp on the ass - not hard, but not gentle either. He expects the sudden buck upwards, the gasp. What he's not expecting is for Orange to moan really loud, so loud Pink jumps. So he does it again, watches him struggle backwards, again, arching his back, again, elbows gathered underneath for leverage, again, and again, and when he reaches back under to grab his cock, he can feel his legs shaking. The breath Orange lets out when he squeezes the head is almost a yelp, his own dick twitches in his underwear and he wants to hear that noise again.

  
  


"Hang on," Orange says, reaching over to prod the brown plastic clock radio, which makes a clunking noise and a DJ voice in mid sentence fills the room, announcing a  _ throwback to the early eighties, one for all you new wavers _ , warbling bassline, sharp hollow drums, swoop of synth and a voice that's familiar like a friend of a friend at a crowded party. Orange bares the back of his neck again, arms stretching above his head, and that's an invitation if Pink's ever seen one,  _ you're not the kind that needs to tell me _ , so he leans down and bites him, gets exactly the breathy gasp he was hoping for.

When Orange is warm-skinned and whining underneath him, pushing up against Pink's teeth on his neck, against his chest on his back, he wishes he'd thought to take off his pants. It's too late now and he just grinds on him through his jeans, runs a hand down over his ass before reaching under to grab his dick again. Orange moans when he does, then moans louder when he grabs his stupid floppy hair and yanks.

It's an awkward position, he's leaning forwards off balance, and as soon as he lets go to steady himself, Orange twists suddenly, throwing him onto his back. He's got his shoes and jeans off in a matter of seconds and straddles Pink before he can even start to sit up, grabs his face in both hands and kisses him hard, wet-mouthed and hungry.

The radio probably won't cover the noise they're making, not really, but it's less weird now that their heavy breathing isn't the only sound, it's easier to let himself make any noise at all when it's not the only thing cracking the airless silence. Orange is completely naked and completely unselfconscious, perched over his hips with his hair sticking up at odd angles, grinning while he smooths his hands over Pink's collarbones and thumbs at his nipples. The friction goes straight to his cock and he doesn't manage to swallow the stupid  _ ah ah ah _ noise in time, but maybe the radio covers it. Or maybe not, because Orange grins and does it again, rougher, his own cock leaking onto Pink's stomach when he leans forward.

  
  


"Fuck," Orange breathes as the thumbnail scrapes deep again, palms flat on his chest, kissing him hard, "fuck, Pink."

"Don't call me that," Pink snarls, "don't fucking call me that while we're doing this."

Orange pulls back and props himself up, grinning down at him. "What should I call you then? Sweetheart? Honey?" He leans down, mouth near Pink's ear, and whispers "daddy?" in a throaty voice, but ruins the dubious effect by dissolving into laughter.

"Fuck you," Pink says and shoves him off, rolls over on top of him and holds his wrists above his head. Orange is still grinning, eyes squeezed almost shut, and his chest vibrates with laughter as his legs come up around Pink's waist. "How fucking old do you think I am?"

"About my age?" He grinds his cock against Pink's stomach.

"What, twelve?"

Orange laughs again and kisses his nose, and Pink can feel a blush start travelling up his chest. "I'm twenty nine."

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. He's gone red and he knows it. "I'm twenty eight."

"Maybe you should be calling me daddy, then," Orange says, wrenches one hand free and grabs Pink by the hair, yanking his head back so he can bite his throat.

"In your fucking dreams," Pink says, breathing heavily, and lets himself be distracted by the blunt sting of teeth on skin and the sticky press of bodies.

  
  


One of Orange's hands slides between them, around the curve of Pink's hip and under the waistband of his shorts, fingers catching on the tip of his cock. He's expecting it when he grabs it, reaches down further and strokes his fingertips over his balls, dragging back up to the head and while he licks into Pink's mouth and bites lightly at his lips. The fake wedding band digs in just that little bit harder, just the barest edge. When the hand shifts to grabbing his ass, he's not expecting the next move to be getting rolled over so Orange is straddling him again, grinding down, almost silhouetted against the dimming light.

When he sits back, peering down with that toothy smirk on his mouth and hair sticking to his damp forehead, he looks alien and a little bit terrifying. His hands run up the bumps of Pink's ribs, over the one that's never healed back completely flat, over his nipples and collarbones and ending curled around his shoulders. He's definitely looking at the strand of barbed wire that loops crookedly around his bicep in greying ink, tracing a finger over the stupid decision from eleven years ago that he regretted within a week. A friend of one of the guys he hung out with did it one sweaty afternoon when smoke from brushfires hung over the city. Her room had black plastic bags taped over the windows and you couldn't see the floor for clothing and trash, but Pink lay on the bed with his arm stretched out and listened to them talk about JD Salinger for three hours and felt cool, even though he thought 'Catcher in the Rye' was a load of pretentious bullshit. Orange doesn't have any tattoos he can see, just the one scar, he's smooth with faint t-shirt tanlines and a dip where the muscle of his shoulder winds down his arms. He's really fucking attractive, and he's probably laughing at how the ends of the barbed wire don't even join up.

At least the green line he inked on his own knuckle with a ballpoint pen and needle is almost gone now. It was going to be a star, but it hurt a lot more than he expected.

The way Orange is hovering over him is starting to freak him out a bit, half-smiling and rubbing his chest, tracing down the ridges of his clavicle and up the tendons in his neck, hands behind his ears and in his hair. It's good, really good, mouth on his chest and a tongue up his neck, teeth on his earlobe and Pink tries to sit up because it's suddenly too much.

Orange shoves him flat and yanks him down the bed with a hand hooked behind each knee. He has his jeans undone and sliding off onto the floor and he's kneeling with his palms on his thighs holding his legs apart before Pink's caught up with the first bit, mouthing at his cock through his underwear. The thin cotton's already damp where his dick's been leaking precome and it goes soaking wet under Orange's licking while he shoves his legs open wider, hand creeping up the leg of his boxer shorts. His fingers curl around, pushing behind Pink's balls while his tongue swipes in through the fly, and god he's stronger than he looks, he glances up and grins when their eyes lock and it's just too much. 

Something must show on his face because Orange backs off suddenly, hands go to resting lightly on his legs while he switches to kissing Pink's hipbone, just a little bit of teeth over the soft skin there, chin bumping against his cock. He's gentler, it's almost sweet and fuck that, that's not what he's here for and not what he wants and the kiss pressed to the tip of his cock is the last goddamn straw. It's too much. This is too much.

Pink reaches down and grabs Orange by the hair - not too hard, just firmly enough to guide him back up, quick kiss on the mouth and a shove off to one side so he can roll him onto his back and clamber down between his legs. He spreads them wider, pushes his hips up, and sighs shakily when Pink takes as much of his cock as he can into his mouth, 

His gag reflex suppression isn't the best and this isn't the best angle for it, but Orange doesn't seem bothered, doesn't seem to have any inclination to try and shove his cock down his throat or fuck his mouth. He seems pretty happy with one hand around the base and the other stroking his inner thighs and balls and dipping occasionally lower, Pink's tongue working in circles around the head of his dick and teasing the edges of his foreskin.

"Yeah," Orange mumbles, "yeah, good boy," and that's kinda weird but he can live with it, hand on his head, "fuck that's it," and his own cock throbs.

He takes a break from bobbing his mouth up and down his dick to bite the inside of his thigh, licking beside his balls and around the base of his cock. His own boxer shorts stick to him wetly as he kneels between Orange's spread legs, wondering how far he can push things. He's already making shallow gasping sounds, talking pretty much constantly while his hips twitch upwards, and when Pink sucks hard on the head of his dick at the same time as he scratches his short fingernails hard down the soft skin on his inner thighs, Orange just about howls.

"You're so fucking good at this," he moans, and Pink remembers a joke someone told him once,  _ why are ugly guys so good at sucking dick, because they have to be _ , elbow into his soft teenage side, still the best compliment he can hope for. Except Orange keeps talking, tells him he's so fuckin hot, grabs his hair and scratches his scalp and repeats variations on  _ you don't even know it _ a few times before whining and devolving into just panting  _ such a good boy, so good, so fucking good _ and coming in Pink's mouth.

For lack of another option, he swallows, and because there's no rush or chance of someone busting em, he keeps sucking, lighter, licking circles around the head while he strokes his inner thighs and balls and Orange whines  _ fuck fuck fuck _ and curls towards him, legs tensing uselessly. Pink keeps doing it until hands hook under his arms and drag him away, up so he can kiss him, panting into his mouth, eyes shut.

  
  


"Gimme a second," Orange says when he stretches out beside him. Pink wipes his mouth across his hand and all the way up his own wrist. A drink would be great right now, even that can of soda on the windowsill is looking tempting for washing the taste out of his mouth, but he doesn't want to go anywhere. They're lying on their backs shoulder to shoulder, the radio is playing  _ life shows no mercy, no mercy _ and ain't that the truth, he's still mostly hard,  _ no mercy, no mercy _ , overall this is really good even if he just gets jerked off. Wouldn't be the first time.

Apparently his isn't gonna be one of those times, because Orange looks over at him and says "want me to suck your cock?" and all Pink can do is nod.

  
  


His boxer shorts are eased down, hands rub over his belly and down to his crotch, and it turns out that Mr Orange has less gag reflex because his mouth slides down his dick until his nose is almost resting against Pink's pubic bone. He pulls almost all the way back, tongue stroking up the underside to flick at the head before he drops back down, and he can't stop himself from whining. The hands tighten on his legs, feels like encouragement, like approval, and this isn't going to last long. The radio murmurs something about number fifty nine in the 1980 Billboard top one hundred while Orange gouges his fingernails down the insides of Pink's thighs, makes him moan loud because it burns, because the mouth on his dick is too hot and he can feel every scratch and bite rising like fire on his skin. He's going to come soon, his legs are trembling, and usually he'd just bite his lip and try to be quiet, but do unto others, so he starts talking and hopes he doesn't sound as ridiculous as he feels.

When he tells him "you look so good with your mouth on my dick," which is just an honest observation, Orange looks up from under his hair and smiles while he works his tongue around the head, and "your eyes are so fucking pretty" falls out of Pink's mouth before he can stop himself. And fuck, they are, but you aren't meant to say that,  _ release yourself from all misery _ , he could just fuckin die,  _ there's only one thing gonna set you free _ , but he only drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, well, for about twenty seconds, until Orange is looking down again, apparently fully focused on sucking his soul out through the end of his cock and he can safely just tell him he's  _ doing so well, such a good boy _ , and maybe things like  _ your fuckin hands, man, you're so fuckin good with em _ come out too, but he's beyond caring and Orange doesn't look up again. 

"When everyone keeps retreating, but you can't seem to get enough," Pete Townsend croons on the clock radio. Orange strokes his palms over the scratches and Pink comes, telling him he's a  _ good boy, such a good boy, so good _ , until he trails off into incoherence and his softening dick is released. Crawling up the bed, Orange flops down beside him and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. His cheeks are flushed and he's smiling, brushes Pink's hair off his forehead while the synth bubbles gently into something else.

They're lying a little apart, Pink on his back and Orange on his stomach, cheek mashed into the crook of his folded arm. Now for the awkward bit. Better to duck out gracefully than suffer the indignity of being asked.

Except before he can say anything, Orange rolls over, manhandles him onto his side so they're nose to nose and shoves one lanky arm under his neck. The other, he drapes over his waist, then shuffles himself close, hooking a bony hairy leg between Pink's knees. They're touching from thigh to belly, chests curving away so Pink's arms can fold between them, fingers curling to rest on Orange's shoulders. It's dim in the room now, gone sometime in the evening, and the sweat cooling makes him shiver.

"You cold?" Orange says quietly, and fishes around behind himself until he can drag the cover over them. There's two stale t-shirts tangled in it and Pink laughs when he goes red and balls them up, hurling them into the corner with the rest of the laundry.

"You're a fucking mess," he says, and is perversely delighted when his face falls and he looks, for one hot minute, like a nervous kid, eyes down and lower lip catching between his teeth.

"Sorry," he says.

Pink forces his face up and kisses him.

There's less teeth this time; it's gentle and when he pulls back, Orange grins at him, shy like they aren't both naked and covered in each others bite and scratch marks, like they didn't meet at a planning session for a fucking diamond heist. Like this is normal. It's not. Guys don't do this. He can feel Orange's soft dick against his own, they're just kissing for the sake of it, running hands up and down each other's sides and arms because they want to and they can, not to get off. They've done that, and instead of Orange kicking him out, he's holding him and pressing kisses to the side of his mouth. It's awful, it's the worst, it's going to end and then never happen again and Pink has to fuckin live with that, with knowing what could happen, with that fucking song he doesn't know the name of in his head asking  _ how does it feel _ over and fucking over.

"Shut up," he says, even though Orange hasn't actually said anything, and the guy has the nerve to laugh and kiss him again, stroking lazy fingers through his hair.

The worst bit is that he's starting to find this charming, he wants to lie here with the radio playing second-rate hits from yesteryear and argue about whether Rami should have quit at 'Evil Dead II', Orange cracking up helplessly at Pink's critique of the inaccurate depiction of medieval society in 'Army of Darkness' and saying "come on man, you hafta be the only one who'd even notice that shit."

Maybe he was, but now Orange is going to notice it too.

The bathroom, when he gets up for a piss, modulates the whole charming thing pretty heavily. Any desire to shower flees when he peers into the bathtub, which houses only a single slimy bar of soap, a bottle of kitchen bleach, and a plastic bag of yellow disposable razors that is also half-full of cloudy water. The toothbrush is bristles-down in the sink, the lone towel is on the floor, but there's a pretty nice (empty) shoulder holster draped over the rail, way too nice for someone who seems more on a knife or baseball bat level of armed robbery. Maybe he has hidden depths, or maybe he stole it. He rinses his mouth out, shakes his hands as dry as they will go, and tries to ignore the fact that the floor is somehow damp.

When he flops back down on the bed, Orange looks at him like he's expecting some sort of comment, but all Pink gives him is a raised eyebrow. He lets him kiss him and tries not to think about his toothbrush.

"You hungry?"

Pink snorts. "For the open can of spaghetti on your kitchen table, or the mystery contents of the pizza box in your bathroom?"

The wounded shy look is back, undercut with something impish this time. "I also have cereal," he says.

"Cereal and milk?"

Orange yawns, tongue poking forward like a cat, teeth snapping shut inches from his face. "I don't think...nah, I don't have milk."

"Dry cereal? Tempting, but I'm not eight so I'll pass," Pink says.

"Suit yourself."

They lie there in silence for a while, Pink on his back and Orange on his side, tucked under one arm with his face in the crook of Pink's neck and his hand on his chest. It's nice, really fucking nice, even though he can't relax, can't stop his fingers tapping along to the radio,  _ eight six seven five three oh nine _ , even though his other hand stays still in Orange's hair,  _ eight six seven five three oh nine _ , sprawled over the curve of his skull.

He can't fucking take the tension. Every time Orange shifts or breathes deeper or even just idly strokes his thumb over Pink's collarbone, he's fucking ready for it. It's driving him up the wall.

"What time is it?" He asks casually, like he can't see the glowing red numbers saying twenty-one-oh-three, and feigns surprise when Orange answers, stumbles through the  _ it's getting late _ spiel and drops in a stupid fucking lie about having stuff he needs to do. All that's waiting for him at home is an unmade mattress, a can of mushroom soup and whatever absolute garbage they play on public access television on Tuesday nights, but the suspense of not knowing when Orange is going to fake-yawn and do his own version of  _ it's getting late _ was doing his head in. Beat him to the punch. Less awkward.

"Oh," Orange says, "yeah, of course."

"So," he says, sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge, glancing around the gloom for his clothing, "I'm gonna...yeah…"

"Of course," Orange says, and when his hand presses lightly in the small of Pink's back, he wonders if it might slide around his waist and pull him back under the covers. It doesn't though, a few seconds later it's gone. Figures.

Only his shoes are immediately visible, right where he left em with his socks tucked into them. There's a tangled lump that might be his jeans flung in one corner, and he vaguely remembers his shirt going over the other side of the bed. He can't find his underwear but to hell with asking him to switch on the light, he just pulls his jeans up and is extra careful with the zipper. By the time he's buttoned his shirt (wrong, as he later discovers, and it's not his shirt), Orange is trotting out of the room, holding up his own jeans with one hand and trying to scratch between his shoulder blades with the other.

The red marks look near black in the tungsten yellow streetlight and it all flashes sinister when he's silhouetted against the window, but that could just be how he's standing, could just be the radio,  _ if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall _ , could be anything. It only lasts a second. At the front door, Orange leans up and kisses him as the song builds, hand on his cheek, and says "see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," Pink agrees, and he's in the hallway before the song even crests and breaks, memory filling in  _ feed your head, feed your head _ while he walks down the stairs instead of doing, well, literally anything except leaving. Complete fucking idiot.

It's almost ten on his own clock when he kicks his front door shut behind him. He spent the whole drive home flipping through radio stations and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, nearly popped the clutch twice because he's suddenly a total space case, and now the uneven walls of his one and a half room apartment feel like they're tilting inwards and he's tempted to walk right back out again. Except he doesn't know where he'd go, what would stretch out his sizes-too-small skin. He's hungry, he could go out and get some food, sit bleached-out under fluorescent tubes and pick at late night remains, wonder if Orange is doing that or if he's just eating stale cereal dry by the handful, wonders why he didn't just ask him if he wanted to get something to eat. That's normal, that's allowed.

Although if it wasn't, it seems like he could do it anyway.

It doesn't have to be personal.

Even though he wants to take a shower, he ends up lying on his mattress in the dark, fully clothed and fully wound up, one hand resting on his bare stomach under the borrowed shirt and the other tangled in his own hair, fingers twisting and tightening absently to that goddamn drumbeat that's still echoing around in his skull.  _ How does it feel _ , why didn't he fucking stay,  _ tell me now how do I feel _ .

It's already pretty goddamn personal.

  
  


A fight next door wakes him up just after seven, still fully dressed, the collar of the shirt digging into his neck and the rest twisting up into his armpits, so he figures he might as well get up. Orange usually calls around noon, but Pink's been picking up parcels from the back doors of businesses and shoving them under a cracked-open roll-a-door in a self-storage facility way the shit out in West Covina over the past month, and they call before nine. It's been a few days so they're probably due, and if they don't, well, he can do some laundry or something. Check through the dwindling pile of cash he stores behind the plastic siding on the base of the shower and make sure he's got enough to pay the rent until this diamond thing happens. And shower, definitely.

Some of the scratches on his back sting under the hot water. Bite marks and bruises are spattered across his collarbones and shoulders, a few creeping up his neck or down his chest. The highest one is under his ear, tucked behind the curve of his jawbone - he finds it while he's shaving and stares at himself in the wet mirror of his windowless bathroom, condensation trickling lines down his reflection and hair dripping down his back. After this job he'll get a haircut and shave properly, maybe start wearing his glasses all the time again because that knocks five years off and makes him look like a complete bomar, maybe go up to San Francisco, maybe further north up to Washington. Everyone else seems to be planning on heading south across the border, but he's had enough of the heat.

Orange doesn't seem to like the heat either, he's always bitching about it and that pale skin must burn easy. Maybe he'll go north as well. His reflection grins.

Or maybe Pink'll die in a car accident, which is statistically far more likely. Fucking idiot.

  
  


The Russian guy hasn't called about a pickup by nine thirty, which means he isn't gonna call at all. The laundromat is blessedly quiet, just two Chinese grandmas in velour tracksuits using half the machines to wash what looks like a motel's worth of bedsheets. They see his neck in the wide collar of his shirt and titter, muttering to each other while they shovel soap flakes into the washers and the radio plays endless ads for car yard sales and warehouse clearances. He thinks  _ you should see the other guy _ and smirks, taps his foot along to the drumbeat still filling his head while someone recites the weather. Warm. Sunny. Cooling off in the evening. Smog warning, high.

Yeah, north would be good.

  
  


Orange doesn't call around noon, but Eddie does at half past.

"Meeting tonight," he says, and gives him an address. It's pretty much on the opposite side of town, but whatever. It's not worth complaining about.

The afternoon drags. There's nothing on the two channels he gets on TV, the radio is playing shit music and pissing him off, he's out of books and can't be bothered going to the library, and he can't even get comfortable enough to fall asleep. Fortunately the phone rings shortly before he goes completely insane.

"Hey, you wanna get some lunch?"

Fucksake. "It's almost three o'clock."

Orange doesn't miss a beat. "White told me about a real good taco place."

Fuck that. "I know a better one."

Infuriatingly, he just laughs. "See you soon then?"

"Yeah, sure," Pink says, and spends the whole drive over irritated with the traffic (light, but still LA), the radio (that fucking 70s program, ads, talkie bullshit), and himself (why is he fucking happy about this). Orange is leaning against the telephone pole outside his building rolling a cigarette, and he grins when he flings himself into the passenger seat.

Before he puts the car into gear and pulls back out onto the street, Orange leans over, clamps a warm and slightly sticky hand on the back of his neck and kisses him on the mouth like it's no big deal. Like greeting someone, another guy in broad fuckin daylight, this way is normal, flick of tongue and a scrape of teeth before he pulls away. And maybe it is, because he slouches back and starts fiddling with the radio. Pink has no idea what his face is doing, probably something ugly, he's sitting there in neutral with his foot on the clutch and the fzzt-voice-fzzt-music-fzzt of someone cycling through stations filling his ears. His mouth might be slightly open too.

Orange gives him a very small smile and settles on K-Billy talking absolute bullshit about a concert in Central Park as the intro to 'Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard' fades up, louder until it's all Simon and Garfunkel coming out the speakers, jangly guitar bright like the sunshine through his dirty windshield. He gets the car into gear as the bass comes in and the hand is back on his leg before they hit the end of the street. Orange is deliberately looking out the window, _ I don't know where I'm going _ , but there's a smile pushing at the corner of his cheek,  _ I'm taking my time but I don't know where _ , his fingers tighten for just a second, and just for a second Pink could fucking whistle along.

This is very dangerous, and he's starting to like it.

  
  


They end up getting some lunch - burritos, not tacos - and sit on the hood of the car in an empty lot and the shade of a billboard to eat. It's kinda hot but at least there's a breeze, nothing fresh, just smog stirring around, but it's better than the still stifling heat of none at all. Yeah, definitely time to head north, and he's about to make this comment to Orange when he remembers who he is, what they're doing, and the rules for this fucking fiasco, and shuts his goddamn mouth.

  
  


Partway through eating, Orange looks up at him with his mouth half full and says "why don't you tip, anyway?"

There are several answers to that question. Pink gives him the one about refusing to subsidise wages because restaurants are too fucking cheap to pay their staff a living wage. He does not mention that when he was a waiter, awkward and resentful no matter how hard he tried (admittedly not very), people rarely tipped him.

"That's not really fair," Orange says, leaning back, palms flat on the car bonnet.

"Life is unfair."

He sighs heavily. "Yeah, I guess so."

  
  


Rush hour happens around them and then quietens off, the sun drops slow and steady and the metal under them cools. He's been trying to teach Orange and his careful highschool Spanish how to talk properly, how the guys in his neighbourhood growing up all talked, and it's hilarious listening to him and his weird accent stumble through it, but it's also fucking endearing the way his face lights up when he gets something right. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder and it would be so easy to reach over and touch him, push his hair out of his eyes and maybe even kiss him, but he glances up and down the street, up at the dark windows of the buildings around them, and he doesn't. Orange doesn't either.

When they get in the car again and the hand is back on Pink's leg, he squeezes it and runs his thumb over the knuckles. No one would see if he leaned over and kissed him, but he doesn't, and Orange doesn't either. Figures.

Maybe next time though.

  
  


They're first at the bar Eddie gave him the address for (at least it isn't that fucking strip club again) and it's early yet, soft rock on the PA system,  _ once you're gone you can never come back _ , and only a few leathery old guys hanging around the tables,  _ out of the blue and into the black _ , more talking shit than shooting pool. They settle into a corner table, both of them picking seats with their backs to the wall, and get through about half a beer and a third of an argument about anarchy being a bullshit system before White saunters in.

"It could work if everyone was on board with it," Orange insists. "Like, as a kind of social contract."

Pink shakes his head and is telling him why this completely contradicts the concept of anarchy when White sits down.

"What's this?" he asks, not quite jovial but definitely ready to be amused, smile shading in around his mouth and in the deep-set corners of his eyes.

"Anarchy can never work on a society-wide level because people are bad," Pink says, aware of the irony of him, a career criminal, saying this. White raises his eyebrows. Orange leans forward, elbows on the table.

"I'm saying that in theory-" he waves his hand at Pink when his mouth opens, "in theory, it could work if people agreed to be, I dunno, less bad."

"But they won't! Even theoretically, you need to account for the one hundred percent probability of people deciding to murder, cheat, assault-"

"Steal?" White says, now completely amused.

Pink rolls his eyes at him. "Yeah. Steal. Even as a theory it doesn't work because people fundamentally aren't decent."

White laughs and calls him a miserable cynic, but Orange stares at him with harrowing sadness in his eyes, and he can't touch him, he can't say anything, so he just glances away.

He's over at the bar getting a round for the three of them when he feels someone standing close behind him, they're close enough that he can feel the air displacement, close enough that he thinks it's Orange and says "I already told you, I'm not kneeling on that bathroom floor for at least another six drinks."

"Nice to hear romance ain't dead, kid," a voice says in his ear, and a big warm hand rests on each shoulder, holds him in place, holds him steady. It's White. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Fuck," he chokes out, because that's all he can think to say. The guy chuckles, breath on his jaw as he leans around. Pink tries not to tense. Stay calm. Pass it off as a joke.

"You might want to do up your top button," White says, squeezes his shoulders once before he lets him go and saunters off towards the bathroom.

Fuck.

He does do up the top button and, when he comes back with the drinks, The Talking Heads sing  _ take a minute to concentrate _ , and Eddie Cabot is sitting in his seat, talking cheerful bullshit about something or other. Prick. He's got his own drink already at least. White's on Orange's other side, arm on the back of his chair again, polo shirt tucked into his slacks and hair combed back smooth, tapping that ring on the table. It's too loud in the bar to actually hear it and White's too classy to be hitting hard anyway, but Pink feels like he can, like every tap tap tap echoes in his head, rattles around like a loose bottlecap. He needs a goddamn cigarette, he needs a better drink, he needs everyone to fucking shut up.

They don't though. He does have a cigarette, switches to rum and coke when Brown arrives and is duly ordered to get a round in, and then has a brief, savage disagreement with him about how Hannibal Lecter really killed Miggs in Silence of the Lambs, because you can't actually swallow your own tongue. He doesn't care, he really doesn't, but when Blue shows up and ends the argument with another round of drinks, he feels better. Calmer. Orange winks at him, still working on his first beer, hair falling in his eyes, and Pink can't keep the stupid smile off his face. What a fucking mess.

Eventually it happens.

"What's her name?" Brown asks, nodding at Orange's neck.

"It's his wife," Blue says, nodding at that joke of a wedding ring, "he's a married man."

Eddie hooks a finger in his collar and peers down, whistles through his teeth. "Maybe I should get married," he says, "but only if I can marry Orange's wife."

Orange shrugs and lights his next cigarette. "Be my guest."

"Bring her along and I fuckin' will," Eddie tells the table, to laughter.

"Be careful," Pink says, opens his mouth against his better judgement because White is staring at him and it's making him twitch. "Mr Blonde looks like the jealous type."

Eddie just rolls his eyes and everyone else ignores him, even Orange. White's eyes slide off, which should make him relax but it doesn't, he just feels raw, like they peeled away a layer when they went, and the conversation moves on while he picks at the edge of the table. Figures, fuckin figures, if anyone else had said that, they'd have gotten a laugh.

If it'd been Pink's collar Eddie was peering down, they'd all have made jokes about Weho bars and called him a queer. He isn't nearly naive enough to think that White and Orange wouldn't laugh and let him take it, but for now he's stupidly grateful that White told him to button his shirt up, that he's keeping his mouth shut. He's not stupid enough to think he's doing it for Pink's benefit, or some kind of homo solidarity. That's bullshit, no one cares about people they don't even know.

Except maybe he does.

A while after he's moved on from stewing over this and is well into trying to figure out who sings the song they're playing -  _ dressed in black, tossing back a shot of rye, finding things to do in Denver when you die _ \- a foot nudges his ankle, and he looks up to see Orange smiling at him again. His cigarette's burning down to the filter in one hand while he tips the ice in his empty glass from side to side with the other, he looks small sitting between White and Eddie, and Pink, dumb sucker that he is,  _ home is just a place to hang your head _ , grins back before he can help himself.

Several drinks later, Eddie goes to the bar or the bathroom or both or neither, who cares, so Pink ducks around the table and back into his seat. The rest of the night is good, both loud and quiet somehow, the bar's filled up and their table isn't the rowdiest any more, and under the swirl of noise, there's Orange's lowered voice, their legs pressed casually together. He catches White looking at them a few times, so when the old guy's occupied with lighting a cigarette, Pink puts his arm across the back of Orange's chair and pretends he doesn't see him wink.

Orange slouches back, and the way they're tucked in the corner means he's basically sitting with his arm around him. No one says shit though. He drinks more and manages to have a cordial conversation with Eddie, taps his foot along to the music,  _ you gotta know when to hold, know when to fold _ , until Orange puts a hand on his leg under the table,  _ know when to walk away and when to run,  _ drinks enough that his own hand moves from the back of the chair to Orange's shoulder. No one even notices except maybe White, but fuck him, and Orange twists to say something in his ear but he doesn't hear a goddamn word because he's too busy looking at where his bared throat meets his collarbones.

He feels like he could do anything and it'd work out all right, like he could start a fight and win. This is wrong; he loses fights and nothing he does works out, but it's a good feeling. Watching Eddie stab his lit cigarette in Brown's direction to emphasise a point, Brown's slope-shouldered sprawl and loose hands sitting still on the tabletop, White and Blue closing the circle with arms folded and heads cocked, everyone unselfconscious and at ease, he wonders if other people feel like this all the time or if they're just better at pretending.

Eddie leaves first, then Blue, and Pink really doesn't want to end up with just him and Orange and White sat around a table again, the guy's been laughing at him all night - okay maybe not laughing exactly, but he's definitely amused about something. He won't say anything in front of Brown, but fuck knows what he'll do when they're alone again.

"I'm out," he says, standing up. Orange peers up at him from under his hair, still grinning at something White said. "You want a lift?"

Pink heads for the door before he has time to answer, because he doesn't want to hear if the answer's no.

  
  


"I'll drive," Orange catches up to him at the car, leans in to kiss him when he scowls, and plucks the keys out of his hand. "You're drunk."

"Yes officer," he mutters, and he feels a little bit bad when Orange tenses up and pulls away, twisting expression on his face like he's remembering something he'd rather not. Fuck. Maybe his entire family died in a drunk driving accident and that's why he's an aspiring jewel thief who eats cereal out of the box. Fuck. Maybe he's right and Pink is drunk.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his own car is weird - not bad-weird, it's kinda relaxing watching someone else kick the sticky clutch and yank the shift into reverse, it's endearing (yep, definitely drunk) watching Orange perch forward on the seat because he's shorter, brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn't seem to own a car, how long since he's driven?

"You can drive, right?"

Orange doesn't even look at him, he's too busy checking over his shoulder. "Fuck you man, yes, I can drive."

"You don't have a car?"

They ease out onto the quiet street, Orange still deliberately not looking at him. "It's in the impound lot. I'll get it back after the job."

"Are you nuts?"

"What?" He finally does glance over. More confused, but less pissed off. Good start.

"Every cop in town is going to be looking for you and you're gonna waltz up to the counter in an LAPD impound lot and pay to get your car back with stolen rocks?"

Orange's mouth twists again and maybe it's just the streetlights washing over his face, but he looks sadder than anyone who's swapping what is undoubtedly a piece of shit car for a handful of diamonds has any right to look. He wants to ask what the deal with the car is, why he'd go back for it, why it got impounded in the first place when Orange drives like someone's (not Pink's) mom, what he actually does plan to do after this, but that'd probably be too personal. He still wants to know, but if he can't know, he'd like him to be less angry so he can pretend he'd tell him if he asked. And so he'll kiss him again.

Pink puts a hand on his leg, not too high up, and squeezes gently. "I'm sorry."

"It's a piece of shit car."

"No," he says, "about before, you're right about me being drunk."

Orange gives him a sad little smile. "I just don't wanna die," he says. They're doing sixty on the freeway so Pink can't lean over and kiss him, but he puts his hand on his chest, warm through his shirt, can't tell if the vibration is his heartbeat or the worn out shocks, and Orange covers it with his own until he needs to change gears again.

The radio isn't on, it's not that kind of silence. The windows are down and the engine seems like it's running louder than usual but surely it isn't, maybe it's just where Pink's sitting, maybe it's his imagination, maybe it's the rushing blood in his ears, maybe it's the other cars passing them because Orange is actually driving the speed limit and no one else in LA does that. It's one of those surreal stretches of time that feels like it belongs to someone else, like it's on loan from a better version of himself who's spent loads of Wednesday nights half-drunk with his hand on the leg of the guy driving his car. He wants to ask Orange what he thinks of the multiverse theory, if there might be a universe where he made one different choice and wound up, like, a cop or something, if he believes in decisions splintering out into a million fractal futures, but it's a perfect kind of silence. He can ask later, when he's less drunk and there's no chance that he'll ask if he thinks there is a Mr Pink who knows Mr Orange's name.

When they've parked, Orange makes a big show of handing his keys back, but Pink grabs his wrist instead and pulls him close to kiss. They're still in the street but it's dead, no one's around to see, and it's easy to wrap an arm around the narrow waist in borrowed time.

"Come on," Orange says after a bit, "it's cold."

It really isn't, but that's as good an excuse as any. They stumble through the apartment with the lights off, end up lying on the bed, face to face, shirts rucked up and trousers pushed down around their thighs, hands around each other's dicks and mouths touching but not really kissing. Pink rubs the slippery head of Orange's cock against his own, ends up kinda jerking them both off at once for a few awkward minutes, then a bit of of stilted grinding with their legs trapped in jeans before Orange licks his palm and starts working his own dick, lazy and slow. Pink follows his example, hips so close their knuckles bump.

Even though he's still tipsy and it's too dark to really see, there's something different about Orange's apartment, and it isn't until they've both come and he's lying flat on his back on the bed that he realises…

"Did you clean?"

Orange turns his face so it's pressed against Pink's shoulder. "No," he says, muffled. "Yes. Fuck off."

"You're gonna have to change your sheets again."

"I think it mostly went on my shirt," he says, peering down, patting down his own chest gingerly until his face suddenly changes to revulsion and Pink can't help cracking up. Orange starts too and they just lie there, shoulder to shoulder laughing like dumbasses until they end up kissing. He peels off his shirt and uses it to wipe his stomach, dabs ineffectively at Pink's bare chest (mostly makes things worse), then balls it up and flings it into the corner behind the open door. Pink follows suit with his own shirt. He'd kinda like a shower but he's not totally confident that Orange cleaned his hellscape of a bathroom, and anyway, he's comfortable, he's got just enough buzz left that he doesn't mind being sticky, there's a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

"Do you believe in the multiverse theory?" he says.

Orange curls against his side, tucked under his arm with the top of his head against Pink's jaw. "Multiwhat theory?"

"Multiverse. Countless parallel universes, each one playing out a different choice you made. Like, in one you're living the life you'd have if you, I dunno, didn't get punched in the face by Blonde. Or went to college and became a marine biologist. Anything can change everything, even choices you thought were inconsequential like, you cross the road too soon and get hit by a car, leave a party too early and never meet someone who was meant to be really important."

"If they were meant to be important to me in this universe, I'd have met them."

"But that's not how life works, it's not a narrative where things work out for the best in the end, it's just chaos and you make choices and sometimes they're bad. And just like, a dimension away, you didn't. Things are better there but you could never know." This isn't what he wanted to say, not even close, but he can't fucking stop, as usual. "You could be fucking up your entire life without ever knowing."

Orange yawns. "I already know," he murmurs, and there's fucking nothing Pink can think of to say to that doesn't sound trite or pathetic or utterly hypocritical, so he squeezes the hand resting curled on his chest and wonders if there's a universe where he doesn't say the worst possible thing all the time. Maybe there's also a universe where he told Orange  _ your life isn't over yet _ and the hand turned to squeeze back. Maybe they're the same one.

For sure it isn't this one.

  
  


He dozes off after a while and wakes up in the dark, has a few seconds of pure panic because he doesn't know where he is and there's someone else there, his arms are pinned and-

"Hey hey hey, you're all right," that someone says in his ear, and hands roll him over so they're face to face.

"Shit," he mumbles, because how fucking embarassing. "Sorry."

"You need to chill out," Orange says thoughtfully, "I thought jerking you off would help, but you only relaxed for about ten minutes."

Pink exhales. "You didn't jerk me off, you were just there while I jerked off."

Orange smirks at him, teeth in the dim, and his hand slides lower. "Maybe that's why, then."

  
  


Waking up next to Orange is pretty good, maybe a bit too warm because he's pressed up against Pink's back with both arms around him and his partially open mouth huffing hot air onto the back of his neck, but miles better than waking up alone. He can't tell what time it is - best guess from the light splashing through the blinds is sometime before seven - and there's no barking dogs or yelling. It's quiet and he's possibly never been so comfortable before in his life, one hand on his chest and another on his hip, and he barely even notices that he's sinking back into sleep.

A phone ringing, unfamiliar tone (higher pitched, less metallic), jerks him awake instantly. It's maybe a few hours on, nine at the latest, and Orange makes an irritated little noise and tries to shove his face between Pink's neck and the pillow. The phone keeps ringing, whoever's on the other end isn't giving up, and after a few seconds he rolls out of bed and stomps off into the other room to deal with it. His voice is quiet, too low to hear any words and he's not really listening anyway, it's none of his business and he'd really just like him to come back to bed.

When he does come back, he's flustered, grabs yesterday's jeans off the floor and steps into them, holds them up with one hand while he looks around for his belt. "White wants me to come out with him, something about going over, I dunno," Orange shrugs, ducks his head and his hair falls in his eyes. He's shifting his shoulders, hands fidgeting around waist level like if he wasn't mostly naked he'd be yanking on the hem of his t-shirt or something. "He's coming over in about an hour."

Figures. "Yeah, I've got shit to do today," Pink says. He doesn't.

Fucking figures.

  
  


As it happens, he's barely slammed his own front door shut when the phone rings, and he twists the cable between his fingers and agrees to instructions like  _ dress tough, bring gun, maybe knife too, leave in half an hour _ .

Just enough time to shower and change, deliberately pay no attention to the fading marks. The fresh two in the dips of his collarbone keep catching his eye in the fogged over mirror though, vivid red in the yellow-grey of his bathroom, on the pink-grey of his skin.

Dress tough? What the fuck does that mean?

Surely not, or maybe...

White undershirt that hangs off him, jeans, old leather jacket, old boots, hair slicked back, sunglasses. Shoulder holster and gun, both knives, extra bullets.

He watches out the window for Andrei's car because it's too fucking embarrassing to stand in the street dressed like a James Dean reject, and half expects them to laugh when they see him. They don't though, they seem pleased even, like he got it right.

It's a good feeling.

  
  


When he comes back from a morning of sitting in a bar on the edge of Chinatown pretending he doesn't speak Spanish, sweaty in the old motorcycle jacket, shoulder holster digging in because this thing isn't cut to accommodate a fucking pistol, Orange is sitting on his front step wearing the shirt Pink left on his floor, picking at the tiny loose blue and white tiles. He's lucky Pink got a ride with the Russian guys, because when he drives he parks out back and goes up the fire escape, wouldn't have seen him sitting in the narrow entrance between the laundromat and the Mexican convenience store.

As it is, Orange squints up at him, is definitely looking him up and down, but all he says is "hey."

This is weird. "Hey. How long you been sitting there?"

"Half an hour," he shrugs and gets up to let Pink past, trailing after him into the shadowy hall and up the stairs. The exterminator's been again and cockroach corpses crunch underfoot. "I was pretty sure it was the right place, I remembered the tiles."

That's pretty impressive considering Orange only would have seen it once, weeks ago, when they all went to that dumb fucking warehouse and that fat smug fuck Joe dubbed him Mr Pink.

"Thought you were out with White today, thought the old man had wisdom to impart or something."

"He's not that old."

He's right, but it's too late to stop now. "Come on, his first conviction was for a stagecoach robbery."

It sounded less pathetic in his head, but Orange laughs. "It was all right, he gave me a speech about cutting off fingers. Had some good tacos though."

Once they're inside, Pink shrugs off his jacket and unbuckles his holster, takes the switchblade out of his pocket and fishes around for the extra bullets. The knife in his boot slips down when he's trying to get it out and he has to take the boot off and shake it free, and Orange watches him from where he's sprawled on the mattress, grinning lazily.

"Busy morning?"

"I'm gonna shower," he says, because while he really wants to tell Orange about the five hours he spent pretending to be fresh off the container ships, pretending he couldn't understand either of the two languages he speaks fluently, make him laugh with his shitty shitty fake Russian accent, that would be a fucking terrible idea. He peels off his damp shirt, uses it to wipe his face and chest and throws it into the propped open duffel bag he uses for laundry. He doesn't make it to the bathroom though, hands slide around his hips, lips and teeth brush his neck and they end up lying on the mattress kissing until he can't taste sweat salt on his own lips any more, just skin.

Orange offers him a spliff (half and half, he claims) and he has a drag, and even though weed usually just makes him unbearably paranoid, this just gives him a bit of a buzz. It's kinda nice and he watches Orange blow smoke rings, progresses to poking him just as he's about to shape them, and when he grabs Pink's wrists to make him stop, he licks his face and makes him yell. The little voice that says he's acting like a dumbass is there, but not up close in his ear as usual, it's yelling from a distance and fuck that voice anyway. Pink lies on his side while Orange hugs him around the waist and bites his hipbones and stomach while Pink scrapes his nails through his hair, down his neck, over his lightly freckled shoulders, over fading marks. It feels like it goes on forever but it probably isn't more than fifteen or twenty minutes total before he stops, looks up with those sleepy eyes and says with utterly serious sincerity "if I'm gonna suck your dick, you need to shower."

That's the best idea he's heard in a while.

  
  


It gets weird for a minute when he's rinsing soap out of his hair and Orange says "move over" and clambers in, but he's buzzed enough that he figures  _ fuck it, whatever _ , and just kisses him under the lukewarm water. It cascades down their faces, over his eyes and nose and mouth, maybe it feels like drowning but in a good way, warm wet skin under his hands and another cock pressed up against his own. They're both hard and if the shower cubicle weren't so small (and missing a bunch of tiles), he'd drop to his knees and suck him off right there. He's considering just making it work because he really wants to see if he can wring those soft little moaning noises from yesterday out of him again when the water abruptly goes cold.

Orange jumps out with a shriek and Pink gropes for the taps, they stand there shivering and laughing, dripping puddles on the spongy linoleum while goosebumps rise on their skin. He kisses him again, arms around his waist, smile against his mouth, he must still be a little stoned because it's funny and hot and he doesn't freak out when Orange hoists him so he's sitting on the edge of his bathroom counter.

He kinda wonders  _ is he gonna try and fuck me _ when Orange pushes his legs apart and steps in close, but all he does is kiss him, hard cock prodding against Pink's belly and hands on his sides. His legs loop around Orange's waist, pulling him in closer so they're chest to chest, wet skin and hot mouths and when he ducks his head to bite his way down to his nipples, Pink scratches at his shoulders and wonders if it's possible that he'll come from this. He doesn't; he comes with Orange's teeth around his ear, one hand around his cock and the other rubbing the sensitive spot behind his balls while he moans into the crook of his neck.

Pink sits there afterwards with his eyes shut and his head on Orange's shoulder, heart pounding, trying to regulate his breathing. Orange keeps one arm around him while he rinses his other hand in the sink, squeezes him close and kisses him much too gently on the temple. It's okay until both arms are around him and a hand is stroking through his hair, skin warm where their bodies press together, it's too much and Pink isn't sure if he wants to shove him away or hold him as close as possible, kiss him on the mouth and scratch deep red lines onto his back.

He compromises by pushing him back against the opposite wall, dropping to his knees in a puddle, and sucking his dick until he's almost wailing, until he comes and his knees buckle and they kneel on the floor opposite each other and both gasp for air for different reasons. Orange leans forward, hands on Pink's aching knees, and drops his face into the crook of his neck. Pink's arms fold around him of their own accord and it's nice, it's just fucking nice, it doesn't mean anything.

Their skin is dry now, puddle nonwithstanding, but it's too cold so they stagger out and collapse on the mattress, burrow under the old blue plaid comforter and kiss. The fog in Pink's head is clearing and their hands are lazy, shadows lengthening as the afternoon passes, when Orange turns to him and says "I can't believe you gave me crap about my place when your bedside table is a milkcrate you stole from," he turns his head to read the logo, "a Circle-K. Nice."

Pink prods him in the side, makes him squeak. "My place is clean," he says, "and that milk crate came from a nice Circle-K in a classy neighbourhood, not some shithole."

"The ones in this area chain em together, don't they," Orange grins and pokes him back, and they both crack up.

  
  


Around six, Orange suggests getting some dinner and Pink remembers that Andrei said he'd pick him up at seven. They'd asked him if he wanted to come to a party with them tonight and he said  _ yeah sure _ mostly out of aimless spite, like going would prove anything at all, and because getting drunk on someone else's booze is better than sitting at home wondering if Mr White is, well, whatever. It seemed like a good idea at the time, it seems like a less good idea now, but Orange grins and maybe it'll be okay, maybe parties are fun when you're not completely surrounded by people you would hate if you even knew them, who won't fucking shut up.

With that thought in mind, Pink watches him wriggle into his jeans and suspects he might be kinda fucked.

"I'm borrowing a shirt," Orange says, snaps him back to the present by brandishing the one he was wearing earlier in his face, "mine smells like weed."

"That's my shirt."

He looks surprised, holds it up to the light like it's some sort of bizarre artefact and not a black button-down with multi-coloured triangles. "Huh, I thought I just didn't remember buying it."

Pink rolls his eyes and throws the blue and green plaid one he accidentally stole from Orange's floor at him. "This is yours. It's clean, maybe for the first time ever."

"You even folded it," he says, "fucking Martha Stewart."

He does end up stealing a t-shirt to wear under it though, and socks because he can't find where he threw his own, and can they get some taquitos from the place across the street at least because he's hungry and drinking on an empty stomach is bad.

"Yeah yeah," Pink mutters, shrugs his leather jacket back on because he thinks he remembers hearing it's supposed to cool down in the evening, almost throws his other jacket at Orange before remembering he's not a fucking girl or his mom or someshit, if he can't dress for the weather then he can just fuckin deal with it. And wow, he knows for sure now: he is so utterly fucked.

Orange is at the door telling him to hurry up, he's hungry, he'll worry about it later.

  
  


He doesn't have to worry about Orange accidentally finding out his name from the Russians - they all call him  _ patsan _ , sometimes while laughing. He'd ask but it's been going on for months and it'd be awkward now, he'd look it up but he's got no idea how to spell it. They don't even blink when two get into the car instead of the one they're expecting, just nod. It's Andrei driving and two guys he doesn't know riding along, loose slacks and buzzcuts and baggy shirts with the top buttons undone, the fading tops of black tattoos visible on their chests and crawling out their sleeves, down onto their wrists and hands. One of them is wearing a flatcap and there's a dagger inked on his neck. Orange doesn't stare but he's quiet, declines a cigarette and darts glances around. He's sitting in the middle, crammed between Pink and a big burly guy who might have been named Skull, sunglasses up, but it's obvious he's nervous.

Skull or Jawbone or whatever he's called booms one of the three phrases that Pink knows the gist of, and Orange looks surprised and impressed when he replies - in English, sure, but it's obvious it's the right answer because everyone laughs. He looks over the tops of his sunglasses and grins, the Russians blast a Beastie Boys tape on the drive out to Long Beach and Pink shifts so their legs touch. He puts a hand on Orange's knee when he leans forward to say something to Andrei in the front seat and leaves it there for the rest of the trip. No one notices, or if they do, they don't care.

  
  


The party's down an alley in a backyard, there's a reggae band,  _ I can play the guitar like a mother fuckin riot _ , and everyone has clearly been drinking since midday, milling around in the sun. It smells like weed, it smells like sweat and cheap beer and grass clippings, and Orange pays the three at the gate for both of them and grins when Pink says he'll pay him back.

"Buy me a drink some time," he says in his ear,  _ life's short so love the one you've got,  _ fingers hooking around his bicep,  _ cuz you might get run over or you might get shot _ , standing way too close even for in a crowd. The sun's starting to go down and the bass is up high enough to thud in his chest, one of the Russian guys he doesn't know gives him a red plastic cup almost full of vodka and he and Orange trade gulps, chasing it with sips from a can of cherry coke while they talk shit and bump elbows. Orange says he doesn't like reggae but he keeps nodding his head to the music and by the time the band winds up, Pink suspects he just had no idea what reggae is - an achievement in itself for someone selling weed and hanging out with stoners...except he doesn't seem to do that either. He looks at him, eyes darting around and out of place at a party and he knows: this guy's not a fucking drug dealer, never has been. He's clearly okay enough for money to have an apartment on his own instead of a room in a sharehouse, his place doesn't look temporary, so he's into something stable, but fuck knows what.

He's got a shoulder holster and a dangerous smile and lied to Joe Cabot's face without turning a hair, Pink knows that much, knows he's sharper than the boyish curve of his jaw and sleepy eyes would lead you to believe, but he's still a fucking nerd somehow. There's something off about him; not like how there's something off about Blonde, fuck no, it's more...it's probably nothing, it's none of his goddamn business.

This isn't fuckin personal.

Someone plays Cypress Hill on a boombox until a punk band takes over and it gets too dark to keep wearing sunglasses. Pink leans on the back fence and watches Orange fuss over a dalmatian that's been ambling around and realises that he's kinda having fun.

There's no one Pink recognises but one guy keeps looking at him like he knows him and it's making him itch, making him shift from foot to foot, where the fuck does he know him from, can't hear the conversation the guy's having over the Ramones cover the band is playing but he keeps glancing over with narrowed eyes. Fuck. Maybe there is gonna be a fight at this party, maybe he's gonna get his ass kicked to the tune of  _ twenty twenty twenty four hours to go, I wanna be sedated _ , while Orange probably laughs.

Maybe he won't though, maybe he'll step between them like he did with Mr Blonde. Then they can both get their asses kicked,  _ nothing to do nowhere to go-oh, I wanna be sedated _ , why the fuck did he come to this party, this was a terrible idea, kickdrum in time with his heartbeat as they both speed up, but then he notices something.

The guy isn't looking at him. He's looking at Orange, crouched at Pink's feet with his hands frozen on the dog's spotty belly in mid scratch, and Orange is staring right back.

The crowd shifts and he's gone.

Scratching resumes, Pink exhales, it seems like whatever that was, it's over, and Orange makes no mention of it when he stands up again. The easy smile on his face is tight around the eyes though. He's spooked.

"Let's go down to the beach," Orange says after a while, both hands on his shoulder and chin resting on his knuckles, leaning close to be heard over the music, "this band is shit."

They aren't really - no worse than the reggae band - this has something to do with the guy who eyeballed him. He's been looking over his shoulder ever since, eyes darting around, keeping his back to the fence and jumping any time someone brushes past. It's none of Pink's business though, so he doesn't ask.

He does, however, lift the sunglasses off when Orange slides them back down his face.

"It's ten at night, you look like a fucking idiot," he says, and hooks them over the collar of his shirt.

Orange shrugs then doesn't drop his shoulders all the way down again, hunching up like he's ready for a fight. Pink has no idea if he's armed. "Come on, let's go, it's just a few streets over. I can hear the ocean."

He didn't bring his own gun, just his switchblade, and it'd be great if he doesn't have to find out if he's brought a knife to a gunfight. "You must be some kind of bat, because all I can hear are these nasal fucks."

"Between songs," Orange mutters, and he looks so antsy that he takes pity on him and they edge through the crowd, out the gate, and down the alley. He's already loosening up before they even get to the street, leans in to kiss Pink on the neck as they're walking, and freezes when a voice says:

"Hey, narc."

The guy's standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning on the wall. He's in long shorts and a Lakers shirt with a sideways Raiders cap, unlit cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.

"Hey Mike," Orange says, tense again, though he doesn't drop his arm from around Pink's shoulders.

Pink's hand goes to the switchblade in his pocket, but all the guy says is "got a light?"

Orange obligingly sparks him up, they exchange nods, and keep walking.

Once they're well out of earshot, Pink asks "who was that asshole?"

Orange scowls. "I didn't narc on him."

"Didn't say you did."

"Yeah, well," he says, "I didn't."

He's rattled, but there's something sad about it too, like some kind of regret, and Pink watches him stalk down the dark street a few steps ahead and wonders if they used to fuck. Sideways Cap didn't seem like the type, but he doesn't think he seems like the type either. He's put a lot of goddamn effort into not seeming like a queer, but under his shirt he's got fresh red marks stamped into his skin that match the bite pattern of the guy he spent the afternoon in bed with. They're layered over fading purples and yellows from the same guy too, practically a long term goddamn relationship, so, fuck knows.

By the time they reach the corner, Orange seems mostly over it, flash of teeth in a grin under the streetlights and the flash of a bottle from the inside of his jacket. He must've grabbed it from the table on their way out, and they sneak sips in the patches of dark and walk for what seems like forever (probably twenty minutes) before Pink can even hear the sound of water. It's longer still before they get to the beach, keep walking past the bars and milling people and jumble of hip hop and reggae.

  
  


They end up sitting on the beach swigging from the stolen bottle of rum until it's pretty much empty - it was only about a third full anyway. Orange takes his shoes off and stretches out, oblivious to sand or maybe too drunk to care.

"You're such a lightweight," Pink says. It comes out sounding much too fond.

Orange pulls him by the back of his jacket until they're both lying down and says "shut up, this is nice, shut up."

He's right, actually. It is. Even with sand creeping down his collar and the high likelihood that he's lying on a hundred cigarette butts, even with the nagging wonder if he has enough cash for a cab back from Long Beach or if they'll have to wait for the morning buses or if they should walk back to the party and see if Andrei is still there, it's just...nice.

  
  


Around two in the morning, when the last warmth of the day has definitely seeped out of the sand and he's no longer drunk enough not to be itchy, Pink decides that the peaceful crashing of waves and how fuckin good it feels to have Orange tucked under his arm doesn't outweigh the very real possibility of falling asleep on a public beach.

"Come on," he says, giving the shoulders a squeeze. "It's late and I'm cold."

He's been quiet for a bit but his eyes are open. "Me too."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"S'nice."

"Put your shoes back on you fucking idiot, you'll get tetanus," Pink tells him, and Orange just lies there and grins, still holding his wrist, thumb stroking up and down.

"I've had my shots," he says, makes faces for a bit but eventually sits up and pulls his sneakers on. He keeps trying to kiss him when Pink's trying to tie his shoelaces for him because Orange has no hope of it, just sits there with a lace in each hand and apologises for losing his socks, laughs when Pink mutters "you're a mess" and finally flings his arms around his neck and topples them both over into the sand.

  
  


There are a few people still around where the bars are, Toots and the Maytals drifting out of a boom box tucked under the arm of a black guy kicking slow on a skateboard, a few cabs cruising around or parked in groups on side streets, and they fall onto the vinyl back seat of the first one who stops. Pink gives the address and Orange honest to god puts on his fucking seatbelt and a few streets later they can't hear the ocean any more.

"What're you gonna do after?" Pink asks, nudges him with his foot and grins, "other than get your car back."

Orange slumps, away from him this time. "I dunno, I can't think that far ahead, man."

"It's like, three weeks." It's also a lie, but he's not going to point that out. He would've a few weeks ago, but now he swallows the accusation. It's none of his fucking business, no matter how much he kinda wants it to be.

"I'll see if I live through it, then I'll decide."

At no point in his miserable, cynical, pessimistic life has Pink not planned to live through something. Not even at his worst, not with broken ribs in a Greyhound station bathroom on New Year's Day, not the first time someone pointed a gun at him, not when he was fifteen and someone was kicking him over and over and he couldn't breathe without getting a mouth full of sand, he's never not planned to live. "Jeez," he says, and doesn't finish the sentence because  _ I've got your back _ sticks in his throat along with everything else. If he was Mr White maybe he could say that shit and have it sound genuine, if he was solid and confident and twenty years older, but he's not, he's one year younger, his nerves twang like steel strings in every silence, and all he can do is slide a hand up Orange's leg while they do sixty seventy eighty on the empty freeway and hope the cab driver doesn't notice, hope he doesn't lean further away.

Between them, it turns they have enough to get them a good part of the way to Orange's place, and fortunately by the time the meter has hit their limit, Orange recognises where they are, says it'll be about a fifteen minute walk, tops. The breeze coming in fast and chilly through the open windows has cleared his head out a bit and he seems to have forgotten their earlier conversation, he's tapping his fingers on his knee, sleepy vacant half-smile and maybe his eyes are sad or maybe that's just his face. Fuck knows, it's late and Pink's not drunk enough to be warm any more, the five blocks past crooked stoops and chain link yard fences takes forever.

"I can get a cab home," he says when Orange is fumbling with his front door keys because fuck what if he's making the wrong assumption here, he's got enough in his pocket to, wait, shit, no he doesn't. "Shit," he says, "is there a bus?"

Orange laughs but it's not mean, it's soft and warm and his hand on Pink's wrist is too. "Stay," he says, but his face turns shy again, sharpness stripped off under the flickering always-on hallway light, and he's quick to add "if you want?"

Something in his voice hurts, dull and then sharp like a sudden breath taken with cracked ribs, and Pink loops an arm around his waist. "Yeah, all right."

Orange finally gets the key in. "If my car wasn't in impound, I'd drive you. I'm a good driver, ain't got any points on my license."

"You're still drunk," Pink says, "and someone told me you shouldn't drive while intoxicated."

"Or tired," Orange says promptly, as if by rote, then grins, his own arms looping back, around his neck so they're nose to nose. "He sounds like a super cool smart guy."

Pink kisses him. "Don't push it, I've seen your action figures."

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, it always does, but Orange laughs like he knows how it was meant to sound and leads him up the stairs.

  
  


It's all a bit domestic; Orange goes for a piss and then sticks his head out of the bathroom to tell Pink he can use his toothbrush, then assures him he got a new one when he sees the look on his face. Pink goes to do the same and when he comes back, Orange is kneeling by the bed in just his boxer shorts, messily folding his plaid shirt. His jeans are draped over the dresser and his shoes are paired by the closet door and he grins like he's just so fucking pleased with himself, like he just wants approval, like he has no idea he's reached into Pink's chest cavity, grabbed a handful of something and wrenched, hard.

He can't keep the smile off his own face, even when Orange sits back on his heels and very deliberately watches him undo his shirt.

"What're you looking at, pervert?"

"You dress like an extra on Hawaii-Five-O."

"Fuck you," he says, "an hour ago you couldn't even tie your own shoes."

Orange rolls his eyes, still on his knees, still grinning. He reaches for Pink's belt buckle and swats his hands away, undoes his button and zip even though these jeans will just fall down of their own accord once the belt is off. Mouth dry, locked eyes, hands slide down his bare legs and he has no idea what to do because this isn't a prelude to anything, this is something else entirely, and he stands there like an idiot until Orange seizes him around the waist and tackles him down onto the mattress.

"You're so fucking jumpy all the time," he says, perched over his hips, when he reaches to brush the hair off his face and Pink flinches.

"I don't really do this hanging out stuff with guys, y'know," he says, because he didn't know he even could, that he could want to.

"You don't hang out with guys?"

"Fuck you, you know what I mean."

"You don't hang out with the guys you sleep with."

"Yeah. We got nothing to talk about. I'm not a faggot."

Orange raises both eyebrows, deliberately looks down between them at where their underwear-covered dicks are touching and yeah yeah whatever.

"I'm not like that, I mean, I don't like queer shit like musical theater, and I don't do the whole macho man leather thing," he can feel the muscle in his cheek starting to twitch, his hands are still on Orange's waist, and he definitely doesn't mean to say "I don't fit in," but it falls out of his mouth anyway.

"So stop fucking trying to, just do what works for you." Orange snaps, rolls away from Pink and swings his legs off the side of the bed, sits staring at his own bony knees. "Lying about what you are doesn't make it go away."

Pink isn't entirely sure who he's talking to, it's almost like they took a wrong turn into the middle of a completely different conversation and he can see a few ways the night ends (lying in the dark not touching while silence presses down on their throats, barbed words yelling getting dressed slamming doors) if he opens his mouth, so he doesn't.

He wants to ask  _ what are you lying about _ , wants to say it so badly that the words feel like they're filling up his mouth, cotton-wool dry and awful, and maybe in some universe he does say them and it ends there. Maybe in some even more remote universe he says the right thing and Orange tells him or at least kisses him. In this universe he hasn't got a fucking clue what the right thing is, so he just turns off the lamp and lies there in the dark feeling like a fucking idiot.

"Sorry," Orange says after a few minutes, while Pink is still debating reaching out and touching him, but doesn't offer anything more. He does lie down though, flat on his back, and he does kiss him, and it seems like he's forgotten all about it when he nudges Pink onto his side and shuffles in close behind him.

He wants to ask are you okay, do you feel all right, but guys don't talk about feelings and this isn't meant to be personal, thud thud thud bassline synth  _ how does it feel _ , breath short in his throat, Orange's arms around him, thud thud thud thud,  _ laid your hands upon me and told me who you are _ , except he hasn't, except maybe he's trying to because there's the shape of something, blurred like something you see out of the corner of your eye but only when you're not looking for it,  _ tell me now how do I feel _ , thud thud, thudthudthud-

"You okay?" Orange says suddenly, right in his ear, and Pink jumps

"Yeah, fine."

Air shifts through his hair while Orange sucks in a long breath, then sighs it out again. "Look, I'm just, this whole job is stressing me out, y'know, and there's this other, fuck, it's a mess."

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

"I'm still sorry," he says, and kisses Pink on the shoulder.

Fuck this is awful, this is like being stabbed, this is worse than being stabbed, his skin feels too tight and there's something warm growing in his chest, he's tucked warm against someone else's chest and, and, and-

"Just go to sleep," Orange murmurs, embrace turning loose-armed as he slides closer to unconsciousness, "you can finish your panic in the morning."

"I'm not panicking."

Laughter puffs across his shoulders and the hand on his stomach strokes lazily up and down between his navel and the waistband of his underwear. "I can practically hear it."

"I'm just...I mean, I was just thinking," he pauses, and the hand does too, "I was thinking this is nice."

Orange hugs him tighter and whispers "gaaaaay" in his ear before kissing the back of his neck.

Maybe after this job, things actually can be different. He presses against the body behind him and grins when Orange squeezes him back, nose in his hair. Maybe after this, he can learn something new, because when he was sitting under the boardwalk with the skater with dreads and dozens of wooden bead bracelets finding out what some guys did with other guys, this was never mentioned, and what a fucking cheat. At the time just having another guy's dick in his hand was like a whole world opening up, but now he can see further.

  
  


The clock radio goes off at ten, but he doesn't have anywhere to be and he can't reach from this side of the bed, so he lets it play the mush-mouthed tail end of what sounds like a Bob Dylan song instead of immediately slapping it silent. The DJ fades in the next track, another walking bassline and loose-wristed guitar,  _ let me go on like I blister in the sun _ , and Orange mumbles something about it being too early and keeps dozing, open mouth on Pink's neck _. _ He's got a bit of a hangover, nothing that won't wash out with a shower and a smoke and a cup of half-decent coffee, but it's easy to let his eyes slide shut to nonsense lyrics,  _ let me go on, big hands I know you're the one _ , breathing slow between beats of the snare.

  
  


Maybe an hour later, Pink's jerked awake by a shrill door buzzer. Orange leaps up like he's been electrocuted, like that buzzer was wired directly to his spine, and peers through his blinds.

"Shit shit shit," he mutters, grabbing the first pair of jeans he sees and hop-hop-tripping out into the living room trying to pull them on.

"What is it?" Sitting up in another man's bed, almost naked and sleepy and fucking vulnerable and this is his worst goddamn nightmare. This is why you don't do this shit. 

His gun's at home, but his switchblade is in his jacket pocket and Orange has a holster, which means he has a gun around somewhere. He might have a bat too, or a riot baton if they're lucky, Pink's got one under the driver's seat of his car, just a heavy stick the length of his forearm with a perpendicular handle branching off it; simple, effective and possibly illegal for civilians. You can wear it up your sleeve if the jacket's baggy enough, no one expects the crack of hardwood when your arm's up protecting your face.

Through the doorway, he can see him pulling on the shirt Pink wore yesterday, jeans still undone and sliding down his legs while he fumbles with the buttons. Orange makes a grab for the jeans before they slide too far and flings himself at the front door. "It's White."

"Fuck," Pink mutters to himself while Orange pounds down the stairs to let the bastard in.

His own jeans slide on quick, his crumpled t-shirt and jacket are where he left em, but he's still barefoot and looking for his socks when White saunters through the door. For a second the old guy looks surprised, but he recovers fast, busts out laughing and slings an arm around Orange's shoulders, ruffles his hair while his face goes red.

"Late night then, boys?"

"The fuck are you doing here?" Pink says, like he doesn't know.

White looks him up and down, cocks an eyebrow at his lack of shoes or maybe how he looks like he just woke up, and says "we got things to discuss."

  
  


The whole afternoon is awkward as fuck. He slumps in the back seat of White's car and half-listens to the old guy talking shit with Orange, though Orange mostly listens. He hasn't offered any anecdotes about his life of crime beyond that fucking dumbass one about the public bathroom and the dog, which is weird because even Pink has a few that he can tell, everyone does, they're number one social currency in these circles.

White mostly calls Orange 'kid' but he just calls Pink, well, Pink. Or Mister Pink, if he's being a smartass about something. He's wearing yesterday's clothing and a pair of Orange's socks, he hasn't showered and he can feel sand on his scalp, between his toes and sticking to every patch of sweat under his jacket. He doesn't quite have a hangover but he's out of cigarettes, didn't get any coffee, tacky-mouthed with acid in his throat, and he's not in the fucking mood to watch this flirting bullshit. He's most of all not in the mood to watch Orange grin and slouch and swagger, bare his teeth and then roll over to show his underbelly. It jars against the last few weeks, it's a barefaced goddamn lie.

Unless this is the truth and the rest is a lie. Fuck knows.

Has White been fucking him? Does he want White to fuck him, hold him down with those big square hands - he's probably real gentlemanly about it all, sharp angles worn smooth with years of practice - and and and.

And it's none of his goddamn business, that's what it is. This isn't fucking personal.

"You boys wanna grab a drink?" White asks, and nods when Pink says he'll pass, asks him "you don't look so hot, you getting sick or something?"

"Late night," he mutters, and stares up at the passing telephone lines without really seeing them while the intro to 'Jackie Wilson Said' plays on the radio. Orange and White are chatting about baseball, their voices faded to a hum, in and out swoops of wires,  _ and you know I'm so wired up _ , in and out against the clear blue sky and the back window vibrating against his forehead. 

"The Dexys Midnight Runners version is better than this one," he says, almost hoping White will disagree, he seems like the type, and Pink's itchy, restless,  _ I'm in heaven, I'm in heaven,  _ can't stop his feet tapping, he wants a fight. In the front seat, Orange laughs at something Mr White says,  _ I'm in heaven, when you smile _ , completely ignores him. Figures.

He's not quite sick, but he doesn't feel well either, all tight in the chest. Must be a hangover.

He kinda fucking hates Van Morrison.

It's too warm in the car but too cold to wind down the windows when they're on the freeway, stuffy too, smells like cigarettes and what they had for lunch, and it might be Pink's imagination but he's pretty sure he can smell himself as well. Yesterday's t-shirt sticks to his back and the lining of his jacket feels slick and oily on his forearms, resting his forehead on the cool glass of the window kinda helps but mostly the vibrations buzz down into his jaw and rattle his teeth with every pothole.

Orange and White grin at each other in the front seat. "I got up to wash my face," the radio trills, too much treble thinning out the voices and drums to insubstantial, "when I come back to bed, someone's taken my place."

"I hate this fuckin song," Pink says.

"You whine too much," White says.

Orange just laughs, but at least he changes the station.

He's got a real bad headache, starting right behind the eyes, all the way down to his lungs.

  
  


White drops him off, which at least solves the problem of how he was gonna get home, and suddenly Orange is jumping out behind him, slamming the car door and hurrying up the stairs on his heels. He's chewing on his lower lip, eyes flicking around but never settling on anything, hovering close behind him in the hallway but hands in his pockets. There's none of the easy touches of the night before, and when he looks back at him, Orange looks away.

Pink really wants to ask what his fucking deal is, what his fucking damage is, what the fuck is going on, but as soon as they're inside, Orange shoves him against the wall and kisses him hard, so hard his head knocks against the plaster. They basically tear off each others' clothing, flinging it all over the room before crashing down on the mattress with bone-jarring force.

This time they both push too much; Orange winces at the hands twisted though his hair and Pink yelps when nails gouge into the thin skin under his arms. They bite down too hard and dig elbows knees fingertips into the soft parts of each other. It's still good, better than good, and Orange whines into his mouth as he jerks him off, his own voice goes high and breathy as well and he comes not long after. Both of them end up lying flat on their backs, not touching, silence brittle, and Pink fucking hates it.

"What the fuck is up with you?" He doesn't really expect an answer and the whole situation is ridiculous anyway; lying in bed naked next to someone with their sweat drying on your skin and the taste of their spit in your mouth, and what feels like a goddamn chasm yawning across the scant inches between you. It's an optical illusion; persons in your bed are further away than they appear, if you reached out you'd come up empty handed, you might as well be there alone.

That's bullshit though. He's not alone, and when he rolls onto his side and reaches out, the chest under his hand is solid enough. Orange blinks at him slow and sad and he tries again, this time with "are you okay, man?" because he doesn't even know his fucking name.

Orange sighs. "Have you ever made a choice so bad that you think it'd be easier to die than try and fix it?"

Not really, but also...his entire life is a mess that's only going to be solved by death - fuck the illusion of narrative progression, of tidy storylines and morals and lessons and anything having a fucking point, life is chaos. But he's not gonna say that, not this time, not when just thinking it makes his throat tighten. Just for once, he'd like to not make things worse, so he brushes his thumb up and down his collarbone and says "as long as you're alive, nothing's so fucked up it can't be fixed."

Surely Orange can hear between the words, read  _ I'll help you if you ask _ in his face.

If he can, he pretends he doesn't.

  
  


Later, sprawled on the mattress by himself after dropping Orange off at home, he wishes he had just fucking said it, not laid there until the silence got so heavy that they'd gotten up and dressed without even talking. He wishes he'd followed him upstairs and sat on his bed in the dark and touched his stupid face again, asked him what was wrong and not left until he answered. Wrench it out of him, stay sitting there until he said, even if he punched him or got nasty or, fuck, who knows, they'd probably be evenly matched if it came to a fight.

He'd stay because no one ever did for him; he doesn't know what to do with an outstretched hand beyond snap and snarl, but Orange doesn't rattle at bared teeth so he might stay, one day when it counts.

Fuck being professional, fuck not getting personal, fuck Joe Cabot and Eddie and Mr fucking White, fuck all these people, and fuck everything. Tomorrow, he's gonna just say it.

The breeze creeps through the open window, he'll be cold soon lying there in just his jeans but for now it's good, he imagines a hand resting on his back as he dozes and every time he dips closer to sleep, he swears he can feel the warmth. Hours later he wakes up clammy and shivering, unable to recall the sensation.

  
  


Orange doesn't call, and when he tries phoning him, it just rings out. Fine. Whatever. He goes down to a local pool hall and plays a few games, mostly smokes cigarettes one after another until he's queasy and lightheaded and just wants to go home. Not home to his apartment though, home to somewhere else that doesn't exist, to someone else who in this universe doesn't care or maybe even exist, and fuck that entirely. Instead he buys a pack of reds from the vending machine in the hall outside the bathroom, kicks it savagely when it won't take his dollar bill but all that does is hurt his toes in his stupid canvas sneakers and he still has to go to the bar for change and everyone's probably laughing at him. He limps out to sit in the bus shelter and smoke half of that pack, wishing it would fucking rain.

He's definitely going north. Apparently it rains plenty up there; Portland's wet or is it Seattle (who cares), he rests his temple on the cool filthy glass and thinks  _ I've gotta get out of California _ while his head throbs to the beat of a song he barely remembers. Passers by look at him with disgust, like he's a fucking junkie or something, but fuck them. He's going to steal a bunch of diamonds and get the fuck out of this town and never look back, start over, never mind that he hasn't even really started once.

When he gets back to his apartment, he takes some aspirin, drinks some water and falls fully clothed into bed. He feels like he used to when he was working the dinner shift - thank god that's over, because if he still was, he'd have to be up in an hour to go to work - wrung out and queasy, a scream perched permanently on his back teeth. Out of all the terrible jobs he's had, that one was the worst. Armed robbery isn't a great career, but at least he doesn't have to be polite.

  
  


He drifts tensely in and out of sleep, dreams a long winding mess that ends with him standing on Dockweiler beach with someone just behind him, arms around his shoulders and face just outside his peripheral vision, the roar of planes overhead drowning out what they're saying to him. It's important, but they won't speak louder and his head won't turn, and he wakes up to the insistent sound of his door buzzer.

  
  


Standing in the entryway, feet turned inwards and shoulders hunched, is Mr Orange. He's wearing the leather jacket again, this time over a Speed Racer t-shirt, sunglasses dangling from the fraying neck and almost-blonde hair hanging in his eyes.

"Hey," he says, "what's up, are you busy, can I come in, are you going out?"

"Are you on drugs?" Pink asks, honestly curious, and holds the door open.

Orange wanders up the stairs and into his apartment, turns around a few times like a lost dog and then perches on the edge of his mattress with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"You all right, you need some water or something?"

He shakes his head, kinda rocks from side to side, "no, no, I'm good, I'm fine, I'm sorry."

  
  


He doesn't say anything else, just sits there staring at his shoes and picking at his cuticles, and Pink is stuck looming over him because moving closer seems like a step too far. The whole thing feels stretched, like a rubbed band pulled back to its limit, with the future holding one end and the other sunk into his chest - even money whether he's flung forwards or left winded by the snapback. Maybe only some decisions split new realities off from an impact point into a kaleidoscope of futures like spiderweb cracks in smashed glass, and maybe this is one of those points.

Maybe what he does next is going to matter.

"Hey," he says again, "hey, Orange?"

Orange's head snaps up like a startled rabbit, headlight eyes and bloodless knuckles. He looks like he forgot he was even there, like he could be sitting up in the stratosphere, full space case, instead of on the edge of an unmade mattress down around sea level, and the moment stretches stretches stretches and Pink knows he can't do it. It's none of his fucking business and he can't do shit, he can't, it doesn't matter what he wants because he can't have it.

"Come on," he says, "I'll take you home."

Maybe nothing matters.

  
  


When they're sitting in the car with the radio on and the engine idling, he puts his hand on Pink's leg and says "sorry," so quiet he'd have missed it if he wasn't looking straight at him. There's not much to say to that, at least nothing that stays in the realm of  _ this is none of his fucking business _ , so he puts the car in gear and says "it's fine, it doesn't matter," and they both know it isn't and it does, but apparently this is how it's going now.

The fingers on his thigh slip from resting on top to sliding up the inside of his leg. "Thanks," Orange says, louder this time, and when he grins it seems like whater the fuck this was might be passing.

The hand doesn't lift til he pulls into an empty space on the street outside Orange's building, and he grabs for it before he even realises what he's doing, the fucking radio is playing Bruce Springsteen, he could go east, north east, he could just fucking say...something. Fuck. Orange is already turning away, reaching for the door handle,  _ stood stone-like at midnight _ , but he stops and looks down at the fingers circling his wrist, looks up at him with those sleepy green eyes and a few airless seconds pass before Pink leans over and kisses him. His mouth is a little dry, soft and almost unnaturally warm, and Pink's free hand curls around the back of his neck, fingers twining through his hair. They don't pull back for a long time,  _ never once gave thought to landing,  _ not til the run of songs ends and they both jump at the DJ's sudden voice.

"Do you wanna-" Orange says at the exact same time that Pink says "I should probably-" and they both laugh and it doesn't even sound forced.

  
  


Orange looks hunted, eyes like a stray dog caught in a wolf trap, but when Pink backs him against his own front door and kisses him, his arms loop tight around his ribs and push up the back of his shirt. He's hesitant but not like he doesn't wanna be there, more like he wants something he isn't sure he'll get, like there's a question stuck in the back of his throat. He's not going to ask it and Pink can't think how he'd say  _ you can tell me _ without sounding like a fucking fool, so he kisses him again and brushes his dumb center-parted hair back from his face and hopes that'll somehow communicate...something. Fuck knows.

"C'mon," Pink murmurs in his ear when they pull back for air, tugs him towards the bedroom. There are clothes thrown all over the floor again, along with half the bedding, and the stack of comics that'd been sitting on the bedside table just the other day is splashed across the top of the mess, covers crinkling. He gives him a little push because it seems like otherwise he'd just stand there beside the bed all night, but Orange doesn't sprawl out like he'd hoped. He sits down on the edge of the bed and starts undoing his shoes and Pink just cannot fucking take it any more.

He steps between his knees, tips his chin up and kisses him, pushes the leather jacket back off his shoulders and slides to his knees as it slips down his arms. Pink rubs his palms up his denim-covered legs, curls his hands around his pelvis, thumbs hooking under the hem of his t-shirt and stroking across soft skin. Orange makes a strangled little sound, fragile and high, and his hands rest braced over the balls of Pink's shoulders. He doesn't push him away when he lifts the hem of his t-shirt and kisses his stomach though, soft skin and and acid-tang of sweat when holds him around the waist and licks the crease of his hipbones. Ribs jump when he gasps and fingers weave through Pink's hair, holding him close, just on the edge of pulling. He's tense but this whole situation is tense, it's all too goddamn difficult and Orange's dick is hard and pressing into his chest, thud thud stutter of heartbeat.

Orange rests his forehead on the crown of Pink's head and sighs, breathes in, sighs again, and he feels like a total idiot kneeling on the floor but he doesn't want to let go.

When he kisses his sternum, open mouthed with a scrape of teeth, Orange whispers "I want you to fuck me."

Pink pulls back, tries to get a clear look at his face in the low light but he's silhouetted by the window, expression lost in the gloom. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

Well. All right then. Not what he was expecting, but fuck, why not. It's not like he hasn't thought about it, not something he's done a whole lot of but, yeah, that sounds good. Orange is biting his lip and his own cock throbs and the floorboards are hard on his knees and fuck he's close to thirty and this is the longest...whatever this is he's ever had and it's not personal but maybe he's a fucking liar. Or maybe all his blood's moved from his brain to his dick, that's more like it.

Orange pulls a slightly sticky tube of lube and some condoms from a shoebox under his bed - there are other things rattling in there too and Pink catches a glint of what looks like handcuffs before he kicks it back out of sight - and flings himself back, hips raised up so he can shove his jeans down. He's hard, cock bouncing against his stomach, leaving a trail of precome in the sparse hair as he kicks his pants and underwear off and onto the floor. When he's fully naked he just lies there, teeth bared in not quite a smile and arms raised above his head like he's waiting for Pink to pin his wrists there, like an invitation, eyes too wide.

"What're you waiting for," he says, "come on, man."

"Shut up," Pink tells him, throws his own shirt onto the floor and straddles him, still in his jeans and shoes, scratches hard down the middle of his chest with one hand and grabs his dick with the other and watches him arch up into the touch, "don't fucking rush me."

Please don't let him fuck this up.

"So you gonna do it or not," Orange says after a while, not exactly playful because there's too much bite in it, more like a challenge,  _ you afraid or something, bet you won't do it, you a pussy or something _ , and his face is drawn and vulnerable, whites of his eyes bright in the dark. It's tempting to shove him down, rise to the bait and wipe the almost-smirk off his mouth, but it's also really fucking sad for some reason, so he kisses him and strokes his cock and tells him to  _ shut up, stop being so goddamn impatient, just relax you shithead _ . Orange laughs, starts unsure and weak but steadies towards the end like what he said was actually comforting instead of, well, who knows, and his hand finds Pink's shoulder, almost the back of his neck, and squeezes.

He takes his sweet goddamn time with it, talks to him the whole way through no matter how stupid he feels, makes sure that Orange is just about begging when he finally eases into him and wow that's a trip in itself. He's gonna remember the way his voice cracks for the rest of his fucking life, the way he squirms and pleads and his mouth hangs open while his eyes squeeze shut, hands blind and desperate up and down his arms. Pink rubs his chest and his dick and tells him he's a good boy, yanks his hair and bites his ears and doesn't let himself go until Orange is making high pitched little oh oh oh sounds straight into his mouth while they kiss. Hands scrabble at his back while he fucks him and Orange sucks marks all across Pink's collarbone, tongue and teeth and nearly drawing blood.

Pink sticks a hand down between them and rubs the head of Orange's cock until he's almost wailing, he's so close, chest heaving and open mouth pressed against Pink's shoulder. He doesn't slow down when he comes either, keeps touching him and murmuring bullshit nonsense in his ear until he's howling from overstimulation and Pink comes too.

  
  


After a minute or two, when his heart rate's dipping back down to normal and he's come off the high enough to find the mess of Orange's come between them uncomfortable, he rolls off and they lie there side by side, sweaty and breathing hard.

"Fuck," Orange says and it sounds kinda like he might continue, like he's leading to something, but he just kisses Pink on the corner of his mouth and stumbles off to the bathroom.

  
  


When it's his turn, he looks at his scratched up body in the scratched up mirror and feels good about it, uncomplicatedly good for once in his stupid anxious fucking life, just for a few minutes.

  
  


When he gets back from the bathroom, Orange is curled on his side, still naked, arms wrapped loosely around himself and for one awful moment Pink thinks he might have snapped, but when he rolls onto his back he looks okay, maybe a bit sleepy.

"Hey," he says, reaches out, smile pushing up one side of his mouth and hair sticking to his face, and Pink's gut lurches like the floor's dropped away. Relief washes through the whole goddamn place like someone opened a window - only metaphorically though, because the room still smells like sweat and sex and stale socks - and he smiles back before he can stop himself.

He can feel the questions bubbling up again, he wants to ask what the hell all this was about, wants to know why he showed up at his place and hardly spoke and then did this, but it's none of his fucking business so he just says "aren't you cold?"

"Yeah, a bit."

"Dumbass," Pink grabs the comforter from where it's balled up on the floor and shakes it out, releasing a flurry of crumbs and what's probably some socks and a t-shirt, and throws it at Orange. The bastard's almost laughing now, kicks the cover out with his legs so it's spread evenly then folds back one corner, pats the space beside himself and straight-up grins at him.

Lying on his back, covers pulled up to his waist and Orange tucked under one arm, stroking his chest like his mind's a million miles away, he has the disconcerting urge to twist down and kiss him on the forehead. It's not as awful as the desire to ask him  _ what the fuck is going on with you _ , but it's still not great. He probably wouldn't tell him if he asked, which is good because Pink doesn't really want to know. This isn't personal.

Orange traces a finger down the biggest scar on his stomach but doesn't ask where it came from, which is good because Pink doesn't want to tell him.

  
  


"The other night" Orange says thoughtfully, then pauses for too long, so long that Pink nudges him, "the other night, White said we'd better be careful. He said you, I mean, I think he meant we were too obvious. You and me."

He's lying. White didn't say they were  _ both _ too obvious, because for all his easy smiles and casual affection, Orange is still a fucking cypher. He's a fucking contradiction. It's less noticeable (or he doesn't want to notice) when it's just them, but around the other guys...he's fucking hiding something, he's lying, he's acting. It's none of Pink's goddamn business but, fuck, it just...it's not his business, all right? They've both kept to the no personal information rule pretty well, but Pink feels like he's said too much, like now even their stupid conversations are leaving him exposed, now White thinks he's too obvious? Fuck. He can feel himself going red, skin prickling, thank god Orange isn't looking at his face, thank god thank god oh god.

"Hey," Orange says after a long while, so long Pink thought he might have fallen asleep. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he tells him, and is surprised by how normal his voice is. Orange burrows against him and he's got no fucking clue what to do so he just holds him tighter and tries to breathe normally.

  
  


It's unfair how well he sleeps. After that revelation he should have spent the night staring at the back of Orange's neck in the dark, but five minutes later he's out like a light, sleeps so deeply he wakes up in the same position with the same warm back against his chest. He's even feeling well-rested for fucksake; he can't remember the last time he didn't wake up feeling exactly the same as he did when he went to bed. The dull sense of dread is still there too, the humiliation of someone looking at him and seeing, fuck, whatever it is that lives in your eyes and on your face when you're a fucking idiot and let things get personal.

Easing himself out of the bed is tricky; one of his arms is threaded under Orange's neck, crooked across his chest and gripping his shoulder, and the other is draped over his ribs, hand sprawled wide over his stomach, fingertips rubbing absently in the line of coarse hair. It'd be really easy to stay and pretend he doesn't remember the odd clipped voice saying  _ too obvious _ after Pink held him and fucked him and said all kinds of stupid shit while he did it, but he can't and he won't and Orange doesn't wake up when he slides out of bed. He takes his clothes into the living room to get dressed and pulls the front door so the latch barely clicks, and Orange doesn't fucking wake up or even stir. 

Figures.

The drive home takes forever and no time at all, he can do it on autopilot now, and he sits in the crumbling bitumen lot behind his apartment for a good few minutes after killing the engine and wonders how he even got there.

Not too long after he's flopped down on his own bed, the phone rings. He's not sure what he was expecting but Orange asking "Hey man, everything all right?" isn't it.

"Yeah, why?"

There's a real long silence because who wants to say  _ I woke up and you were gone _ when they aren't supposed to care. "Just, I dunno, just wondering, man."

"Yeah," Pink says, "anyway," and Orange suddenly agrees that he has to go too and hangs up.

Fucking figures.

  
  


Orange calls the next day on the dot of noon, carefully casual, asks what he's up to, if he wants to grab a bite or something. They probably shouldn't be hanging out every day, Joe'll be pissed if he finds out, so Pink declines, says he's got shit to do, then stands under the shower til the water goes cold. The marks aren't vivid enough to show up in the foggy mirror like before, but he can still see some of them when he looks down at himself.

The second day when Orange calls, he says he has some deliveries to make. He's already made them, but what the fuck ever. Orange doesn't even call him on his lie, which is infuriating. The marks have mostly faded from his skin.

The third day, Orange says him and White are going to get a drink and Pink can't keep the sneer out of his voice when he declines. Sitting in a bar with both of them sounds like hell, but later he decides that hell is probably sitting at the bar in the pool hall on his own, wondering if White's leaning close when they're talking, if Orange put his hand on his leg in the car, if they're gonna go off afterwards and, whatever, it's none of his damn business. He can't stop thinking about it though. There's one yellowing bruise left on the edge of his collarbone, almost out on his shoulder, and he can't stop pressing his thumb into it.

On the fourth day he wakes up and does an early delivery, the radio's good, the sky is overcast and he has breakfast sitting at the counter in diner on the way back because he just can. The first cup of coffee he gets is burnt but not bad enough to leave when he's the one paying for it, and the caffeine still calms him down regardless of taste. He feels all right. Decided. Today when Orange calls, he's gonna go over. They've got work to do together and he's a fucking professional, he's a fucking adult, this whole avoiding him thing is total highschool bullshit and he's better than that. If White is there, what the fuck ever, he'll figure it out. He can do this.

"I made a fresh pot," the waitress says when she next bustles past, "sorry about the first one."

Instead of being a prick about it, instead of making some caustic remark because it  _ was _ a terrible cup of coffee, he kinda smiles awkwardly and accepts the refill, says thank you and leaves a tip, two singles weighed down by the empty mug. Life isn't fucking fair, so what. Maybe it can be unfair in your favour sometimes.

He's home not much after eleven and Orange has called him at noon like clockwork for three days so he probably hasn't missed it, except today no one calls at all. Figures, fucking figures.

He doesn't hear from him at all, figures figures fucking figures, he's probably out with White or someshit, arm across the back of his chair in a bar, slouched to look up at him from under his hair, nervous laughter and a hand wiping blood off his face, so fucking obvious, who even cares, it's nothing personal. It's nothing at all. It was a perk, it ran its course, he can steal some goddamn diamonds and drive up the Olympic coastline, go back to fucking strangers and stop being such a fucking pussy about all this, stop being Mr Pink.

It'll be good, it'll be better because getting involved is a bad idea, it'll be an entirely new life.

The problem with telling yourself shit like this is that you know the guy trying to sell it to you, and you know he's a fuckin liar.

  
  


A week to the day before they're all supposed to meet in that stupid diner for breakfast, Pink pays, in cash, for a month's rental on a storage compartment that is just big enough for him to stand inside if he doesn't swing his elbows around too much. It's on the way to the warehouse but not too close, he could walk there afterwards if he needs to, and there's a bus stop two blocks over. He considered just stashing a backpack up on the verge under a freeway bridge, but the stakes are too high for him to come back and find it gone, so he coughs up thirty bucks and a false name and makes sure to be seen carrying some cardboard boxes into it. They're mostly empty; one has a backpack with a faded old grey denim jacket, ragged plaid button-down, and a baseball cap. There's also his glasses, scissors, and a razor. He's not taking any chances.

He doesn't have a suit, just a tie and a black sport coat that he bought from a thrift shop in his old neighbourhood and wore once to a job interview, and black jeans that are new enough that no one will notice.

  
  


When it all goes so predictably wrong, he stands in the dark storage compartment clutching the bag of diamonds, unable to hear anything over his own heartbeat, thud thud thud stutter, leg and shoulder throbbing where the car hit him and he hit the pavement, and thinks  _ I could just vanish _ . It wouldn't be hard. Wait a few hours, change clothes, shave, get the bus back to where he stashed his own car - they're looking for guys in suits and he'll be looking one Nirvana t-shirt short of another grungy fuck trying to pretend LA is Seattle. Get his car, drive out overnight, maybe even actually head to Seattle because fuck it, why not. He could do it, he doesn't owe these people anything.

Except he does, he owes them a bag full of diamonds and if he doesn't deliver, Joe will find him and send Mr Blonde to kill him. That's okay, he can call, set up a drop or an exchange or something. He doesn't have to go back to the warehouse. Joe's a professional, he'll understand. Pink's a professional, he'll deliver. Everyone's happy.

Well. Everyone who didn't get shot or caught.

He's never been to jail. He'd maybe rather get shot. It can't be worse than getting knifed.

He could wait til it simmers down and he's sure no one got followed, he can do that. He's technically already doing it, all he has to do is wait longer and he'll have done it.

Except.

He wants to see Orange, make sure he got out all right because he last saw him standing in the doorway holding that gun, white knuckles and sunken eyes like he hadn't slept in days, and he was already gone when Pink ran out the door. White was acting up over breakfast, trying to set him at ease, louder than usual, brash in the space left by Orange's silence, winking at him and trying to make him laugh by winding up Joe. It's about as close to rattled as the old guy probably ever gets, and as pettily satisfying as it was to see it not working, he couldn't stand to watch it. For once, he thinks he could've said the right thing, because as a life-long coward, Pink understands fear and dread.

Orange was terrified this morning. He crossed the parking lot like a man walking to his execution, like he knew this whole thing was doomed, like he wasn't planning to live through it.

_ Have you ever made a choice so bad that you think it'd be easier to die than try and fix it? _

Yeah, he was a prick at the diner, but Pink's been a prick his entire life, often without even meaning to, and Orange is one of the few people who hasn't seemed to hold it against him. The least he can do is tell him he understands.

He kinda wishes he'd said something, just quiet in his ear when they were all walking out, let his hand rest briefly in the small of his back.

Pink has no idea what he would have said. He has no idea what he'll say now. Probably something acidic and flippant, probably only half of what he means, but hopefully Orange will hear what he isn't saying.

He's a coward and a fuckup and a jerk and a queer and a thief, but he's apparently also a complete fucking idiot, so he chokes down his panic, drops the diamond bag in the cardboard box with his backpack and heaves up the roller door.

What's the fucking worst that could happen.

**Author's Note:**

> "Bomar" is an old slang term for "nerd" - comes from the Bowmar Brain calculators and the fact that they were presumably only owned by massive nerds
> 
> "Patsan" (пацан) is a Russian slang term for a guy, like "kid" or "mate" - can be derogatory but not always as far as I can tell


End file.
